


Sympathy for the Devil

by Tor_Raptor



Series: Sympathy for the Devil [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Day Care, Football, Gen, Humor, Kid Moriarty, Moriarty's little brother, Moriarty/Moran friendship, Moriarty/OC - Freeform, Primary School, Rivalry, Sarcasm, Scheming, School, Science Fair, Shenanigans, Teenage Moriarty, Young Moriarty, baby Moriarty, hopefully-canon-compliant, how did Moriarty meet Sherlock, kid genius, maths team, not-so-subtle references, toddler Moriarty, why is Moriarty evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 67,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: From the moment he was born, he knew he was different: primarily because he actually remembered that first day of his life.His brain had always moved too fast for the world to keep up. But what was his childhood really like? How did he end up on the path to fame? What circumstances created this dashing sociopath?





	1. Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

From the moment I was born, I knew I was different: primarily because I actually remembered that first day of my life. I would learn later that ordinary people couldn’t do that. I can recall all-consuming darkness followed suddenly by an onslaught of bright lights and blurred faces. It was so overwhelming for my young self I couldn’t help but cry. Something soft caressed my skin and swaddled me in its warmth. Eventually, all the crying tired out my small frame, and my eyes began to droop. The last image to cross my eyes before I succumbed to sleep was the face of a woman staring down at me, teeth showing and eyes sparkling.

After that day, the first few months were incredibly dull. My mind so desperately wanted to explore everything around me, but my chubby limbs simply refused to cooperate. I tried to reach for that shiny, jangly thing in front of my face and ended up with a fistful of hair from my laughing mother. How did I know she was my mother? How does anybody know anything? The idea just feels right when they think it to themselves. I knew this woman was my mother before I completely understood what a mother even was. 

Again and again I reached for the enticing object before me, missing every time. Frustration took hold, and I did one of the only things I knew how to do: I cried. I had learned pretty fast that when I did that, I would earn a comforting embrace from my mother. It was difficult to explain, but the feeling of her warm arms surrounding me was the best feeling in the world. Sometimes I would cry simply because it was something to do; the little wooden cot my mother kept putting me in offered despicably little stimulation.

Every day, almost all the time, my parents made an incredible amount of noise. Their mouths were constantly in motion, and I could only deduce that the omnipresent noise was coming from there. It appeared to be some sort of communication system. Similar to the way my mother came running to me when I cried, she’d go running to my dad whenever he shouted, “Honey!” It would be so great to be able to use that same system. I could actually tell my mother specifically why I was crying, instead of having to wait helplessly while she figured out whether I was hungry, tired, or needed a change. Unfortunately, whenever I tried to manipulate my lips in the same manner, all I managed to produce was a muffled, “Goo…Ba…Dee.”

“Oh, look! He’s already trying to talk,” my mother exclaimed. My making those incomprehensible noises made her eyes widen and her mouth open, so I kept at it.  
“Doo…Tee…Ma.” I mumbled. 

“That’s it, keep trying sweetheart. You can do it,” she encouraged. Desperate to succeed, I wracked my tiny brain for a noise I’d heard her made before that I could replicate. Then, a stroke of genius! Those shiny things she used to dangle in front of my face, what were they called?   
“KEY!” I blabbered excitedly.

“He’s just said his first word!” my mother cheered, running upstairs to tell my father the good news. “He said, ‘key!’”

Hmm. “Key,” I thought. Not bad for a first word. I knew it referred to those sparkly, jangly things, but what did it really mean? Did they do something special besides wiggle and shake? As an infant, I loved to ponder things like this. What does that do? How do you use this? What are you doing with those? 

Slowly but surely, my endless stream of questions was met with a steady flow of answers. My mother was now letting me lay on the floor, where there was much more to see and explore. For example, I learned that a key was something very important. One day, I stuffed them under the couch to see what would happen. My mother looked for them for nearly an hour before I removed them and offered them to her. After that, I was never allowed to play with them again; therefore, my mother not being able to find them is bad and cannot be allowed to happen. Through many miniature experiments like that, I began to gain a real understanding of how the world worked. ‘Breakfast’ was when my mother and father sat at the table and ate food while it was light outside, while ‘dinner’ was when my mother and father sat at the table and ate food while it was dark outside. A ‘bill’ was a little white piece of paper that my father liked to pretend to rip up. ‘Telly’ was the box that was black most of the time, but turned pretty colours and talked when my father sat and stared at it.

At about four months old, I taught myself a brand new skill. I was lying on my stomach, scanning the room for anything of interest, when I saw the remote my father always used to watch telly. The only problem: it was too far away to reach. So, I decided to devise a method of moving my body around the room without crying for my mother to pick me up and do it for me. I knew my arms and legs could move, but I didn’t know quite how to place them to make them carry my weight around. First, I tried grabbing the carpet in front of me and attempting to pull myself forward. However, my fingers simply couldn’t hold on while dragging my entire weight. Next, I flipped onto my back and tried scooting across the floor with my feet. This worked to a certain extent; however, I couldn’t see where I was going, and rubbing against the carpet irritated the skin on my back. I rolled back over and tucked my knees up under my chest; it felt surprisingly natural. Hesitantly, I picked up one knee and placed it on the ground a few inches in front of the other. Gaining momentum, I did the same with the other knee and moved my hands further forward and out of the way. Eventually, I found a perfect rhythm of moving my arms and legs to move quickly around the room. Success! I had never felt so alive! I finally had the freedom to go where I wanted whenever I so desired.

Remembering why I wanted to learn to move around in the first place, I crawled over to the remote and picked it up. It had so many colourful buttons that I couldn’t decide which one to touch, so I touched all of them. None initiated anything exciting until the big red one at the top. When I pressed it, the pictures on the telly woke up and started moving. Encouraged, I pressed more buttons. One of them seemed to make the noise it was making louder, so I kept pushing it over and over again. Louder and louder it grew, until my ears started to hurt. I panicked, having no clue how to make it quieter again. My mother came running into the room and snatched the remote. She immediately pushed another button that quieted the telly, then turned it off. She scooped me up in her arms and asked, “How did you get your hands on the remote, silly? I know I didn’t leave it in your reach.”

I wanted to show off my new talent, so I squirmed around, hoping she would get the message and put me down. Fortunately, she understood and I crawled a victory lap around her feet.

“Oh my goodness, you’re already crawling! None of my friends’ kids could crawl at four months, you must be such a special little boy!” she exclaimed. Special. I’d never heard that word before, and had no idea what it meant. Hopefully, it was something good.

A few days later, my mother presented me with a ‘toy.’ 

“This should keep you out of trouble,” she said, handing it to me. I looked at it, confused as to what I was supposed to do. It had several coloured rings of different sizes, and a pole.

“Food?” I questioned. That was another word I had learned, and it referred mostly to the white stuff I sucked from a bottle that took away the weird feeling in my stomach.

“No, no, sweetheart. You play with it. Let me show you.” My mother took the biggest ring, and placed it on the pole. I took another one and placed it on top of it. Then, I took the rest of the rings and stacked them all up on the pole: blue, yellow, red, green, orange. Upon seeing my creation, my mother laughed, “That’s good. Now, try to put them in order. Look at the picture on the box.” She pointed to a picture of the rings stacked up nicely, the biggest on the bottom and the smallest on the top. Excited to finally do it right, I dumped the rings off the pole and stacked them in decreasing size order: blue, green, yellow, orange, red. The result was a much prettier, neater stack. “Perfect, great job!” my mother congratulated. “Have fun.”

With that, she left the room. What was I supposed to do now? I already finished the puzzle, what was left? Frustrated, I dumped the rings and stacked them the same way again. Then I did it again. And again. Bored, I stacked them in reverse order, with the small red one on the bottom. Then I stacked them like that again. And again. And again. I tried to challenge myself, stacking them without the pole in the middle. But I mastered this too in just three attempts. Why did this have to be so boring? I grew frustrated, and started throwing the rings across the room. When I ran out of rings, I threw the pole base. It soared across the room, and smashed into a decorative vase on the coffee table. Little pieces of porcelain scattered across the floor. I crawled over and picked one up to investigate it. I twirled it around through my chubby fingers, marvelling at its shininess and shape. Out of the blue, I felt a strange feeling—at the time I hadn’t yet associated it with the word pain—in my right hand. Red liquid poured from my palm onto the shard, and the feeling grew stronger. I’d never felt something so unpleasant before, and I began to cry. My mother came running and, upon seeing the mess, grunted out loud.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes, and you get into this much trouble. That was my grandmother’s favourite vase! What am I ever going to do with you?” she sighed. She picked me up, but something was off. Her embrace didn’t feel as warm and inviting as it usually did. There was a distance, a coldness, to it that had never been there before. “I guess I can’t be properly mad at you until we fix up that hand. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

She took me to the sink and rinsed off my hand. Then, she sprayed it with this strange-smelling stuff, which caused the weird feeling to worsen for a few seconds before easing up. “I know it hurts,” she chided, “but this will make it better.” 

“Hurts.” I muttered back. I assumed that word described this odd feeling, and stored it away in my memory to use in the future. My mother wrapped some white stuff around my hand, and carried me up to my cot. She laid me down and instructed me to take a nap. All the excitement of that day had exhausted me, so I willingly obliged and was asleep in minutes.

Over the next few weeks, my mother presented me with toy after toy, all of which I grew bored of within two hours. I pushed all the buttons on the little keyboard, verified that all the coloured shapes fit perfectly into their respective holes, tracked every bead along its winding path, and stacked all the blocks in as many formations as I could conceive. Nothing could occupy my racing mind; I needed something more complex and challenging. The most fun I ever had was trying to decipher the conversations my mother had with my father.

“He’s developing so fast,” my mother whispered to my father one night as they ate dinner.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with that,” my father replied. “He’s going to be a genius.”

“Yes, he’s smart, but he’s almost too smart. Nothing can keep him distracted enough, and I’ve tried everything. He always ends up in trouble. He broke a vase and nearly sliced his hand open. What if he gets bored and does something even more dangerous when I’m not looking?”

“Why don’t you just put him in day-care or something? They’ll watch him for you.”

“You don’t think he’s too young?”

“You said it yourself: he’s way farther along than a typical kid his age. I’m sure he’d do fine.”

“I guess you’re right, the new experience would be good for him. Maybe being around other kids will help keep him busy.”

“Yeah, it’d be good for him. Good for you, too. You’re always stressing about him.”

“I’ll sign him up to start as soon as possible.”

“Okay, you do that.” 

With that, my mother stood up from the table and left without cleaning up her things like she usually did.

A few days later, she took me into the car with her. We drove for about fifteen minutes before arriving at a quaint little building. I saw many other adults walking inside with children. As I watched their little legs carry them inside, I yearned to be able to support myself on just my two feet. It appeared much more efficient and much cleaner than crawling. At home, my knees ended up covered in crumbs of whatever father ate for breakfast that morning. However, since I was still unable to balance on just two feet, my mother carried me inside. The place was filled with stupid toys like the ones my mother had attempted to get me to enjoy, and some others I’d never seen. I reminded myself to explore them later. Any floor space that wasn’t occupied by toys was filled with children playing like crazy, babbling and laughing.

“Who do we have here?” I heard a high-pitched voice ask my mother. I figured that the woman was asking my mother for my name, which I’d been practicing pronouncing for a while now. Eager to demonstrate my prowess, I answered the question for her: “Jim Moriarty. Hi.”


	2. What's Puzzling You

Never before had I met other children. Even though they were all at least a year my senior, each and every one was unimaginably dull. After my mother had left me all alone in this place, I’d immediately run to a corner to observe. The woman in charge looked at me strangely, but since I wasn’t yet causing any trouble, I didn’t think she’d take the effort to talk to me or adjust my behaviour. I watched in silence and marvelled at the incredibly short attention spans of the other children. They jumped from toy to toy as if each was a bomb that would go off if it was played with for more than three minutes at a time. What shocked me, though, was how enthralled they were with whatever game they were playing. These simple games didn’t bore them whatsoever. One little boy literally sat on the floor and pushed little cars back and forth for two hours straight. Sure, he kept switching cars, but it was still the same exact thing. For two. Whole. Hours. How is that even possible?

Another thing I learned was the concept of sharing. Every time two children fought over a toy, the woman in charge would go up to them and discuss how they were going to share the toy between them. One time it happened to these two particularly stupid kids who had been at each others’ throats all day. I had been watching them closely: the blond boy had taken the toy right from the hands of the brown-haired girl. She had the right to keep the toy. But apparently that wasn’t how it worked. Even if someone had claimed a toy, the woman in charge forced them to give it up to another kid after five minutes. It didn’t seem very fair to me.

Fortunately, I was never forced to submit to the abysmal practice of sharing, because none of the toys there offered anything of interest or stimulation. I enjoyed observing the other children and their ridiculous antics more than I had ever liked playing with any toy. Nevertheless, I was still relieved when my mother finally came to bring me back home.

“Did you have fun?” she asked.

“Fun?” I repeated confusedly. What was she talking about? Was fun some type of food I was supposed to have tried for snack?

My mother turned to the woman in charge and enquired, “Did he look bored all day? I thought a new environment would help stimulate him.”

“I wouldn’t say he was bored,” the woman in charge explained. “He looked very focused. He sat in the corner all day and watched the other kids play.”

“Bored,” I insisted. Upon hearing it used in several different contexts, I had learned the meaning of that word. It described how I felt basically all the time: wanting to do something, but having nothing interesting to do.

“Apparently he disagrees,” the woman in charge chuckled. “I’ll try to find something to keep him busy tomorrow. Do you have any idea what he likes to do?”

“He’s hated every toy I’ve ever put in front of him. He’s so advanced for his age, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d enjoy games meant for four or five-year-olds. Maybe we should get him a puzzle or something,” my mother suggested. I wondered what the word ‘puzzle’ meant, and hoped it would finally pique my interest.

“Good idea. I can grab some from the older kids’ classroom down the hall. See you tomorrow!”

With that, we left. When we arrived back at home, my mother put me in my cot and told me I should try to take a nap. Despite my attempts to fend off the drowsiness, it prevailed.

The next day, my mother woke me up to get ready to go to day care again. I would have resisted, but the tantalizing thought of a ‘puzzle’ encouraged me to cooperate. I was actually exciting to get there and find out what that word meant. Upon arriving, I practically leapt out of my car seat with anticipation. At least, I intended to. I had forgotten about the restraints that only my mother could undo. Frustrated with my incapable chubby fingers, I watched as she nimbly unfastened them. She carried me into day care, and I squirmed out of her arms to approach the woman in charge.

“Puzzle.” I reminded her, tugging on her pant leg to alert her to my presence.

“Yes, I brought you a puzzle. Let me show you how to do it,” she said. She knelt down and handed me a big box with a picture of a farm on it. She opened it, and out tumbled a wooden board and six smaller pieces with handles on them. She took one shaped like a chicken and placed it in an indent on the board also shaped like a chicken. 

I thought to myself, “Are you kidding me? The piece literally has a matching picture on it. Where’s the challenge?” I spitefully placed the remaining five pieces in their spots and glared at the woman in charge.

“That’s too easy, huh?” she questioned.

“Easy,” I repeated.

“I thought so, but I didn’t want to give you one too hard and have you get frustrated.”

Who did this lady think she was? The only thing frustrating about the situation was that she thought so little of me. Any kid in this room could have done this puzzle. Sure, it might have taken them several tries, but even they could have figured out that the cow goes on top of the cow, the horse with the horse, and so on. I grumbled while I waited for the woman in charge to return, hopefully with something reasonable.

“Try this one,” she suggested, dumping out little pieces of cardboard from another box. These were thinner, and each had a picture on them, but it wasn’t a whole picture like the other ones. “You put them together to make the picture on the box,” she explained. Intrigued, I began experimenting with fitting the different pieces together. It was surprisingly engaging. My mind easily saw how the pieces would fit together; most of the challenge was getting my fingers to pick up the slim pieces from the floor. “I think you’ve got the hang of it. Let me know when you finish, and I can give you another with even more pieces.”

After about half an hour, I placed the last piece, completing the picture of the red flower. I was so excited that I hopped to my feet and walked over to tell the woman in charge of my accomplishment. That’s right: walked. In that moment I was so focused on reaching her as fast as possible, it didn’t even register that I wasn’t using my arms to support myself. I practically fell over with sheer delight. The woman in charge looked down at me and smiled. I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what that facial expression meant, but people usually made it when I did something well, so I associated it with my personal success.

“Jim, your mother will be so excited to hear that you took your first steps! Good job,” she exclaimed. “And you finished the puzzle!”

“Yes!” I replied. “More.”

“Okay, I’ll get you another puzzle. Be patient.”

For the rest of the day, I alternated between working on the new puzzle and practicing my walking. With each step, I became progressively more stable. By the end of the day, I could make it all the way around the classroom without falling over. I couldn’t wait to demonstrate this new skill to my mother. That day, the hands on the clock seemed to move even more slowly than usual. Finally, I heard the tell-tale sound of the front door opening and watched as parents of the other children came to retrieve them. My mother arrived about five minutes after the first parent, and I hobbled over to her. Her eyes widened and she grinned.

“Jim, you’re growing up so fast! Before I know it, I’ll be sending you off to university!” she said, scooping me up.

“University?” I questioned. That was another word I’d never heard before. Apparently, it described something complicated, because my mother refused to explain it to me.

“It’s not important. Let’s go home and tell Daddy the good news.”  
~0~  
Over the next several weeks, my mother and I developed a routine. On weekdays, she’d wake me up, feed me breakfast, and take me to day care. I’d spend my day there working on puzzles the woman in charge found for me. Each new one contained smaller pieces in greater numbers than the one before, and I thoroughly enjoyed figuring them out. The other children continued to squabble over who had what first or who hit whom. After day care, my mother would take me home and I’d take a long nap before dinner—however much I loathed wasting the time, my small body still needed the rest. On weekends, I’d do the same thing without the day care in the middle. Instead, my mother would take me with her on what she called ‘errands.’ These involved a lot of riding in the car and riding in a shopping cart as she pulled item after item off an endless row of shelves. After she gathered as much stuff as would fit in the cart, she’d go and take it all out again and give it to a man at a counter. This was my least favourite part: she just spent all that time putting the stuff in the cart, and now she wanted to take it out again? The man at the counter put all the stuff in bags and put it back in the cart. What a redundant process. My mother would give him a handful of paper, and finally we could leave.

This schedule continued for about a year. My speech was becoming much more proficient: I now used sentences instead of simply words. My walking had also improved immensely. I never stumbled anymore, and my mother let me walk next her instead of riding in the uncomfortable shopping cart when we did errands. Nevertheless, I desperately yearned for something new and exciting to happen. I’d heard some of the other kids at day care talk about this place called ‘school’ that their older brother or sister went to, and it sounded quite intriguing. I’d asked my mother several times if I could go, but she simply informed me that I was too young.

I shouldn’t have wished so badly for my life to change, because it eventually did. Only not at all in the way I expected. It all began when, instead of doing errands, my mother took me to a place called the ‘doctor’s office.’


	3. Pleased to Meet You

Don’t get me wrong, I had heard of the doctor before. I’d even visited him several times for my own checkups. All he ever did was poke me with needles and look in my ears as if there were something interesting hiding in them. But I didn’t recognize this doctor’s office. The only occupants of the waiting room were women my mother’s age, making me the only male present. We sat there for a long time while my mother read a magazine and I played with a little game she had bought me a while ago. At two years old, my fingers were now dexterous enough to play with a little wooden puzzle. I’d managed to take it apart on sheer luck, but needed to figure out how to put it back together.

After what seemed like ages, my mother’s name, Sarah Moriarty, was called by the lady at the desk. She took my hand and we walked back into another, smaller room. It had a few chairs and a table with weird footrests. My mother took the table and instructed me to sit in one of the chairs. A lady in a white coat came in and started talking to my mother, but she used so many big words that I gave up on following the conversation and instead focused on my wooden puzzle. They babbled and yammered for a long time before the lady in the white coat addressed me specifically.

“Are you excited to be a big brother?” she asked with an obnoxious grin.

“We haven’t exactly told him yet,” my mother interjected.

“Oh, my bad. I assumed he’d be one of the first people to know. It’s a big adjustment, not being an only child anymore.”

It took me a while to process these words. Big brother? Not only child? So that would mean… my mother was pregnant? I glanced at her belly for the big bump I had learned signified pregnancy, but it was non-existent. I walked over and placed a hand to possibly feel any size difference, but it felt the same as usual.

“Silly, it’s not big enough to see or feel yet,” my mother giggled. “It’s very tiny, but it will start to get bigger and you’ll see it then.”

“Oh, okay,” I muttered. “Will it be a boy or a girl?”

“We don’t know yet, but we’ll tell you when we do.”

“I hope it’s a boy.”

“I know you’d love to have a brother, but I know you would love your little sister just as much.”

“Do you know its name?”

“Dad and I have been thinking of a couple, but we’ll decide when we know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Okay,” I grunted. I wasn’t too keen on this whole ‘little sibling’ idea. I wished they had requested my approval before going ahead with this whole thing. I didn’t want another ordinary child to contend with; they were so dull. Even worse, it would almost certainly want to share my things, something I simply couldn’t allow. However, on the car ride home, the thought occurred to me that this new sibling might be like me. It might also be bored with simple baby toys, and we could help each other challenge our minds. It could despise sharing as much as I do, and insist on keeping its things to itself and leaving my things alone. I decided to keep an open mind about this little sibling, at least until it was born and I could figure out its personality for myself. For now, all I could do was fantasise about what it would be like to have an intellectual equal. I thought of all the puzzles we could solve, crazy adventures we could have, and insults we could hurl at all the idiots.

My mother became progressively more exhausted, and her belly grew perpetually larger as time went by. I abhorred how long I was being forced to wait. I wanted to know what my little sibling would be like, and I wanted to know immediately. But every time I asked when it would be ready, my mother annoyingly huffed: “Any day now.”

“Any day?” I would respond. “Can that day be today?”

“No, I don’t think today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Probably not tomorrow either.”

“What about Saturday?”

“Sure, maybe Saturday.”

Saturday would come, and I’d ask if it would be today. It was never today. Always ‘soon,’ ‘not long,’ or ‘before you know it.’ Well, I sure knew it, and I still hadn’t learned anything about my little sibling except that it liked to kick. Finally, my mother came back from the doctor’s office one day and announced that it was definitely going to be a boy. At least I now had a little more information to go on.

I thought about my little brother every day. I certainly hoped he’d be smart like me, but I realized that I wasn’t actually in the market for a perfect equal. I needed him to be just close enough for challenging him to be fun, but in the end, I would always come out on top. I knew it was a very specific niche to fill; nevertheless, my childish mind held on to that chance he’d be perfect.

~0~  
At last, the day came when I heard my mother scream for my father to take her to the hospital. My father hurriedly stuffed me into the back of the car and we drove, my mother sweating profusely and breathing in weird rhythms. We reached the hospital, and I was told to sit in a chair and wait for my father to come get me. I expected to wait for a half an hour, tops. In reality, I mindlessly counted the ticks of the second hand and watched the man across from me eat a full-sized bag of crisps for three hours. To this day, I’m shocked I didn’t pass out and asphyxiate out of boredom.

My father eventually came back into the waiting room to bring me in to see my new baby brother. He held my hand as we traipsed down the long corridor. Not because I needed security or anything, but because my father didn’t want me getting distracted and running off. I had done that a couple times, but now I was far too determined to finally meet my brother to let anything snatch my attention. We entered a stark white room, and there was my mother. She clutched a small blue bundle which I assumed to contain my baby brother. I walked over and glanced at the face sticking out from beneath the blanket.

The first thing that struck me was the sheer chubbiness of his face. Had I been that fat when I was born? I sure hoped not. His closed eyes were practically invisible under his massive cheeks. However, the next thing I noticed was his resemblance to me. I’d seen my own face in a mirror and (if you added a pound of fat) it would be nearly identical to the face I now stared at with wonder.

“He looks just like you, Jim,” my father said.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, mesmerized. If he looked similar to me, did that improve the odds he’d act similarly too? I doubted the two traits were related, but I still couldn’t help but hope with all my might. 

“We decided to name him Connor,” my mother informed me. She tickled Connor’s cheek affectionately.

“Can I feel him too?” I asked curiously.

“Sure, but be careful.”

I reached out and gently caressed his cheek as I’d seen my mother do. Connor opened his eyes, and for a moment, he met my gaze. I’d never seen another person look at me like that before, and it confused me. I assumed that, since he was just a baby, his stare was supposed to be incomprehensible. He hadn’t had much time to observe how other people communicated.

“Jim, I think he likes you,” my father observed. Connor had wriggled his chubby hand out of the blanket and was reaching it toward my face. I quickly ducked out of the way, not eager to get poked in the eye, and Connor started to cry.

“He just wanted to say hi to his big brother,” my mother assured, gently rocking Connor to soothe him. “Jim, you should let him.”

Reluctantly, I leaned in closer to allow Connor to poke my face as he pleased. I felt a surprisingly pleasant tickle on my cheek, and Connor stopped crying. This interaction greatly interested my mother, who cooed, “They’re going to be the best of friends. I can just tell!”

I hadn’t observed anything to hint that Connor was at all like me, but I’d only known him for five minutes. I decided to watch him closely over the next few days, ensuring that he was progressing properly. 

“Come on Jim. Let’s give Mum some time to rest,” my father suggested, ushering me back out of the room. 

“Goodbye, Connor,” I said. My father and I left the room and returned home. Falling asleep that night proved more difficult than I expected. My thoughts kept circling back to Connor and what he would be like. I had waited so long for a friend I could relate to, and I couldn’t stop worrying about how I would survive if he turned out to be ordinary just like all the other children. I’m not sure how I managed it with my raging thoughts, but I eventually drifted off into a dreamless sleep.  
~0~  
For the first few weeks, Connor didn’t do much but eat, sleep, and sleep some more. He slept so much that it left dreadfully little time for observations of his mental status. First impressions were not encouraging. I definitely slept a lot when I was his age, but I wasn’t this lazy. My mother assured me it was normal for newborns to sleep almost all day.

“Then why didn’t I sleep so much?” I questioned.

“You were a bit of an anomaly,” she replied hesitantly.

“Anomaly?” Another word I’d never heard before. I hated when they tried to confuse me like that.

“You slept less than a normal baby. By comparison, Connor seems to sleep a lot. But don’t you worry, he’s perfectly healthy.”

Despite her comforts, I did worry. If I was an anomaly, Connor should be one too. That was the moment I began to lose hope that Connor would be anything like me. Attempting to look on the bright side, I thought of how much better I would look in the eyes of my parents if Connor was an ordinary child. With him around, I’d be even more spectacular!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. You can also find this story on fanfiction.net if it suits you more to read it there. Hope you enjoyed


	4. Ten Decades

With him around, I was even more spectacular! Despite my desperate hopes, Connor was proving to be a quintessentially mundane child. He hadn’t even attempted to talk yet. Even worse: my mother gave him all the toys she’d given me when I was a baby, and he actually liked them. He would stack the rings in random order, make ‘music’ on the keyboard, and forcefully shove the coloured shapes in the wrong holes. No matter how many times I demonstrated, he refused to accept that the circle fit far better in the circular hole than the star-shaped one.

“Jim, let Connor play the way he wants,” my mother insisted whenever I tried to teach him.

“But he’s doing it wrong,” I complained. “He’s going to break it if he keeps doing it like that.”

“That’s okay. It’s his toy to break.”

“Fine.”

I always lost arguments like that. My mother defended Connor relentlessly; everything he did was not only acceptable, but often ‘adorable.’ I had rarely been described as ‘adorable,’ most people used adjectives like ‘exceptional,’ ‘amazing,’ or ‘unbelievable.’ This was fine by me; if attempting to eat a teddy bear was ‘adorable,’ there were far more important things to be.

My mother had a friend with a baby Connor’s age, and she came over to our house often so her daughter could play Connor’s stupid games with him. My mother would make tea and they’d chat about neighbourhood gossip and share recipes. Her friend’s favourite topic, however, was me.

“He’s such an eccentric child, don’t you think?” she asked, blowing daintily on her tea. Everything she ever did was done daintily.

“I guess you could say that,” my mother said hesitantly. She didn’t like that people thought I was weird. “We prefer to think he’s exceptional.”

“Where did he get his brains, from you or your husband?”

“Honestly, we have no idea. We were both perfectly average students. It’s a miracle of sorts.”

“What’s a miracle is that no one has recommended he be evaluated.”

“What on Earth do you mean by that? Evaluated by whom?”

“A psychologist or someone of the sort. He doesn’t interact with others his age properly, shouldn’t you be concerned?”

“No, I’m not concerned that my son is shy. Why should I be?”

“His behavior is beyond shy, it’s antisocial.”

“He’s just too intelligent and mature to enjoy the company of other kids his age. They’re all so far beneath him. Asking him to get along with his peers is like asking teenagers to happily play a game for preschoolers: it’s just boring.”

“Maybe you should try to get him into school. Systemized education would be good for him.”

“I’ve actually tried that. They won’t accept him because he’s too young. He has to be of age before they’ll consider letting him start primary school.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Hopefully, he’ll enjoy it once he’s old enough to start.”

“I hope so too. He deserves something to occupy his brilliant mind. He tries so hard, but life is too simple for him.”

Why had I never heard mention of this so-called ‘school’ before? It sounded fantastic. Systemized education. Did that mean I’d be learning? Learning a lot? All I’d ever wanted to do was learn, to fill my mind with new things to use at my whim. The idea had me so excited, I forgot I was supposed to be working on the whole ‘potty training’ thing that my mother had introduced me to a while ago. Whoops.

~0~

“Mum, when can I go to school?” I asked after her friend had left.

“School? Where’d you hear about that?”

“Your friend mentioned it.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I would love for you to go to school, but like I told her, you’re too young. They won’t let you in until you’re four.”

“When will I be four?” 

“Jim, you know when your birthday is. That’s when you’ll be four.”

“I have to wait until next December?”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. The term doesn’t begin until September. So, you have to wait until the following September. You’ll be almost five.”

“NO!” I screamed. I couldn’t wait that long. Now that I knew there was something out there to occupy me, I couldn’t live without it. I certainly couldn’t live with the thought hanging over my head and tantalizing me. I choked on pure anger and resentment toward whatever power was keeping me from my potential.

“Jim, calm down this instant!” my mother commanded. Instead of obeying, I ran off to my room and the blessed solitude it offered.

Fuming, I flopped down onto my bed. I didn’t fully understand why, but something about the lack of control I had over the situation infuriated me to no end. I rolled over in frustration, and allowed my head to dangle upside-down off the side of the bed. It was a strange feeling, with all the blood rushing to my head. It made it feel dramatically heavier, like my brain had swollen to twice its usual size. I glanced around the room, fascinated by the new perspective that being inverted offered. The floor became the ceiling, and vice versa. All the faces in the pictures on my walls appeared distorted, and slightly creepy. People’s eyes were on their chins, their hair was now a beard, and their smiles looked like misshapen frowns. It was strange how alien these familiar things seemed when viewed from another perspective.

I turned my head slightly, and glanced at the corner behind the nightstand that my mother could never reach when she cleaned. A spider had spun a very large web there. The intricacy of the woven silk amazed me. A creature no bigger than my thumbnail had designed and built that magnificent web. I observed closely as a fly flew dangerously close to the web and the waiting spider. The motion of the fly’s wings tickled the strands of the web, and the spider visibly tensed, alerted by the proximity of its prey. Unaware of the lurking danger, the fly swooped closer and closer to the silver web. I marvelled at how still the spider was able to remain, even with its prize so tantalizingly within reach. At last, the fly beat its wings for the last time, propelling itself straight into the waiting tendrils. The spider immediately pounced, cocooning the fly in thick layers of silk. Within seconds, all that remained of the little fly was a wriggly lump of shining silver. 

The whole process had lasted less than five seconds, but the spider now had a meal to sustain it for days. I thought to myself how incredible the hunting technique of the spider was. It was practically flawless, requiring minimal effort on the spider’s part. The spider was intimately aware of its own web; it could feel the vibrations of each and every strand. Every whisper of a possible meal, the spider heard. Any hint of an approaching predator, the spider sensed. Each rustle of a potential mate or rival, the spider felt.

“Jim, come down please! I need to talk to you,” my mother’s voice woke me from my stupor.

“I don’t want to talk!” I called back.

“Please?” she pleaded. Ugh. That word ‘please.’ My mother taught me that using it was an important part of ‘good manners.’ It was tacked on to the end of a question or command when you wanted someone to do something for you. Such a waste of time. I obeyed her request to use it simply to appease her; to me, it portrayed no meaning whatsoever.

In spite of her frivolous, and frankly annoying, begging, I decided to heed her command and talk to her. Venting my feelings actually did make me feel better sometimes. I trudged downstairs, and she sat me down on the edge of the couch. Wishing to hide, I sank as deep into the throw pillows as I possibly could.

“Jim, I know you’re upset. But we need to work on realizing that life isn’t always fair, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Why not?” I asked. 

“That’s just not the way the world works.”

“Why not?” I didn’t play the ‘Why Game’ just for the sake of being irritating, I played it because I legitimately wanted to know why things were the way they were. As a young child, my parents were still my best source of wisdom about the inner workings of the world.

“There really isn’t a good explanation for it, I’m sorry. The best thing you can do is accept the situation and try to work around your disappointment.”

“How?”

“Well, you want to go to school to learn things. Since you can’t go to school yet, why don’t you try to learn things in other ways?”

“Like what?”

“You’re a smart boy, you can figure it out. That’ll be the first part of the challenge.”

“But I don’t even know what I want to learn. School was supposed to tell me that too.”

“Okay, that’s a reasonable point. Why don’t you try to deduce Connor’s favourite colour? He can’t tell you with words, but maybe you can get him to tell you some other way.”  
I pondered this experiment and decided that, while the results would have little value, preparing the method of reaching a conclusion would benefit me. It was something to do, and anything was better than watching another rerun of Bosco.

I immediately began formulating a plan of action for determining a non-verbal baby’s favourite colour. I would need multiple trials over several days to ensure that he selected based on colour every time, and didn’t just grab the first one he could reach. I also needed to procure identical objects of different colours. I couldn’t use a red rattle, a blue teddy bear, and green broccoli; how would I know his decision was based on colour? I ran a mental inventory of things we had around the house and decided that my mother’s ball of yarn would be perfect. She had many colours, and she wound them all up into perfect spheres. They were ideal for this experiment; all the same shape, size, and texture.

I rushed into my parents’ room and dove into the basket of yarn, pulling out ball after ball of colourful yarn. I was so eager to begin my experiment, that some of the strands became tangled. I had to waste five whole minutes extricating them from each other. Finally, with my arms full of yarn, I ran back into the room where Connor was playing. I carefully set the balls of yarn down within arm’s reach of the baby, evenly spacing them in a circle. He watched me wide-eyed, and gurgled happily. Before I had finished, he reached out to grab the yarn. He enthusiastically yanked the string, unravelling the ball. Infuriated, I snatched it back from him. How dare he ruin my perfect experiment!

“Not yet, Connor. Don’t be stupid,” I chided. He replied with that ridiculous baby laugh of his. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get this little kid to properly respect me. I replaced the yarn in its proper place and double-checked the spacing. “Now you can pick one,” I told Connor. He simply stared at me blankly. I pointed to all the balls of yarn in turn, watching his face for any lingering gazes at a particular colour. Nothing. His eyes never left my face. Why was this kid so infatuated with me? Couldn’t he see that I was trying to conduct an experiment, and his relentless obsession was severely hindering my process?

“Mum, Connor won’t listen to me,” I groaned. “All he does is stare at me and giggle.”

“He loves his big brother, you can’t fault him for that.”

“But it’s ruining my experiment!”

“Maybe he’ll copy you if you show him what you want him to do.”

As Connor watched, I picked up the green ball of yarn and placed it in my lap. Then I returned it to its place and instructed him to do the same. He reached for the green yarn and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Gross, Connor!” I yelled. “Not in your mouth!”

I pulled the yarn, now covered in baby drool, out and put it back in the circle. At least I got him to pick one. Did that mean his favourite colour was green? No, he just chose the same one I did! Ugh, why did I ever think I could work with babies?

“Did it work?” my mother asked from the other room.

“No, I demonstrated it for him, and he picked the same yarn. I’ll never know if he chose it because of its colour, or because I picked it too.”

“Oh well, maybe you can try again later and he won’t remember which one you picked.”

“Maybe I should just try something with fewer variables.”

“Sure, sweetheart, whatever you want.”

I vainly tried to think of something else to test, but nothing came to mind. It didn’t matter that I had no ideas at the moment; I had nearly two years to come up with something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't noticed, there's a theme to the chapter titles: lyrics from the song the story is named after. I wanted to flex my creative muscles and make it work, but just a warning that some of them are slightly extrapolated especially towards the middle of the story. Feel free to comment any questions/praises/notes you may have, it's always great to know people are reading and enjoying this story! Thank you!


	5. Jesus Christ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on a comment made by Moriarty in the Final Problem: "I wrote my own version of the nativity when I was a child. 'The Hungry Donkey.' It was a bit gory but, if you're gonna put a baby in a manger, you're asking for trouble." I threw this chapter in at the last minute to incorporate that. I certainly do not mean to offend anybody because of the references to religion, I just wrote how I thought a young Moriarty would interpret it.

At some point during that long hiatus, the woman in charge decided to teach us the story of the holiday my parents called Christmas. Every year around December, they brought a tree into the house and covered it with shiny trinkets. They also piled boxes wrapped in coloured paper around the bottom which I was not allowed to touch until Christmas morning. I’d always loved Christmas morning, running downstairs and finally finding out what was hiding beneath the tree. But apparently this celebration had deeper meaning, and the woman in charge wanted us all to know what that was.

I tried to listen as she explained about the birth of Jesus Christ—I really did—but the story just didn’t make sense to me. All I managed to absorb was that Mary was visited by an angel who told her she’d give birth to the saviour, and her husband wanted a divorce because he was told he’d be marrying a virgin, but then the same angel haunted his dreams and convinced him the pregnancy was meant to be, so he didn’t divorce her. When the baby was born, nobody in Bethlehem would give shelter to a woman about to give birth, so he was born in a stable and placed in a manger. 

First of all, I’d figured out that babies didn’t just appear like that. There was a process to it; I just wasn’t sure what that process was. Secondly, why were the people of Bethlehem so cruel? They didn’t have any room to spare for a woman in labour? Couldn’t Mary have explained that this child was to be the saviour, thereby forcing the residents to let her in? What was the point of being the mother of the saviour if nobody would even listen to you? Thirdly, why a manger? They couldn’t devise any better cot than an animal’s feeding trough. These people had no ingenuity.

After the woman in charge told us the story of Jesus, she instructed us to draw a picture of the nativity scene. When we finished, everyone would explain their drawing to the rest of the children. I relished this opportunity to point out everything that bothered me about the story. I decided to draw it the way I thought it would happen.

Everyone worked for half an hour on their drawings, but most of the other children took breaks to either attempt to eat the crayons or throw them at each other. I sat near the edge of the table and worked diligently, not allowing their antics to distract me. When I wanted a red crayon, I discovered that all of them were already in use. I would not resort to talking to these animals to ask for it, so I simply waited until one of them switched colours. However, none of them did. I didn’t want to wait any longer, so I asked the woman in charge if she had any extra red crayons. She told me to ask one of the other kids to share it with me.

As much as I didn’t want to interact with the other children, I needed the red crayon more. So I selected the least idiotic of the red crayon users and politely requested a turn with it. Fortunately, she handed it to me without resisting. If there had been a confrontation, I might have blown my stack. Red crayon in hand, I returned to my seat and finished my drawing. The woman in charge asked who would like to present their drawing first, I enthusiastically volunteered. I stood up and walked to the front of the room, holding the drawing out for everyone to see. The woman in charge gasped slightly, but didn’t interrupt me as I began my story.

“I call it the Hungry Donkey,” I began. “Nobody in Bethlehem would offer their homes to the pregnant Mary to give birth in, so she was forced to take shelter in a stable. When the baby was born, they placed it in the only container they could find that was large enough: a manger. They thought it would be harmless, but they were unaware of the habits of the farm animals around the stable.

“A donkey lived on that farm: a hungry donkey. This donkey was fed by his farmer every day in the same place. When the donkey grew hungry, he would make his way over to the big container where the farmer always dumped his hay, and it would be waiting for him. That day, he walked over to the manger and found, not hay, but a small, pink thing inside of it.

“Now, donkeys are not the brightest of creatures. So this donkey assumed that the farmer had given him a new type of food, maybe even a special treat. He reached his grey head down into the manger and took a bite. The taste was unexpected, far richer and tougher than the hay he typically ate. He didn’t like it, but the donkey was particularly hungry that day because the farmer had worked him extra hard. So he decided to try another bite of the new food. This time, red fluid ran down his muzzle and congealed in his neck fur when he took a bite. He wasn’t used to his dinner being so warm and juicy, but he kept on eating. 

“Only when a scrap of blanket fabric was all that remained did Mary’s husband realise what had happened. He grabbed a stick and started beating the donkey away from the manger, but it was too late. The donkey was confused: why was he being punished for simply eating his dinner? He ran back to the pasture to escape the vicious blows, while the man screamed after him. Fortunately for the donkey, he was no longer hungry.”

When I finished my narrative, I glanced up at the woman in charge. She’d finally figured out what the mass of red crayon on my drawing represented. I waited for her to comment, to say anything, but she just stood there in solemn silence. My initial reaction was fear; I wondered if I was in trouble or something. I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. All I did was draw the nativity like she asked and explain my drawing to the class. I thought I actually went above and beyond, telling the story from another perspective like that. 

The woman in charge disagreed. She told me to sit down and she took my drawing. I was about to snatch it back, but she glared at me when I reached up. Frightened, I resigned myself to watch as she threw my beautiful work of art into the trash can. This angered me; how dare she just get rid of my hard work! I was looking forward to showing that to my mother. I wanted her to hang it on the refrigerator like she did with all my drawings.

“Who would like to go next?” the woman in charge asked. All the hands in the room went up and the children squeaked eagerly, begging to be chosen. I wondered if she’d make any comment to me at all about my story. Maybe she just didn’t like it. She didn’t mention it to me for the rest of the day, or the next day, or any day after that. It seemed the Hungry Donkey only existed in my mind. Everyone else acted like it had never happened. To this day, I wonder if the woman in charge just secretly hated donkeys.


	6. After All

At long last, it was the Sunday before I was to start primary school. I won’t go into great detail about how I occupied myself all those months; in my great boredom, I was forced to do certain things which I’m not proud of. And no, I do not know how Connor’s favourite rattle got struck by lightning and disintegrated. I had gone with my mother to buy all the supplies I would need, which was by far the most exciting errand I’d ever done. My backpack had essentially never left my side since I got it, resting outside the door whenever I went to the bathroom.

That night at dinner, I found it extremely hard to concentrate on eating. I was far too excited for something so mundane. Connor, on the other hand, had no problem whatsoever. He had developed a nasty habit of throwing the contents of his plate at me. Disgusted, I would toss it back to him, which only made him giggle uncontrollably.

“Connor, be nice to your brother,” my mother insisted. “And you shouldn’t throw food at anyone, it’s bad manners.”

“Sorry,” Connor mumbled. Since he’d learned how to use that word, he got away with all sorts of shenanigans. He could literally do whatever he wanted and, as long as he followed it with an apology, he wouldn’t get in trouble.

“So, Jim,” my father inquired. “Are you eager to start school tomorrow?”

“Am I! I’ve never been so impatient to go anywhere in my whole life,” I exclaimed.

“That’s good. I’m sure you’ll love it there.”

“CanIgotoo? CanIgotoo? CanIgotoo?” Connor begged insistently. He was ridiculously clingy, always wanting to follow me everywhere. It got on my nerves.

“I’m sorry Connor, but you’re not old enough,” my mother consoled. At this, he started to cry. It started as a small sniffle, but when he realised it wasn’t earning him the attention he desired, it escalated to full-blown sobbing. I was not in the mood to listen to one of his tantrums, so I excused myself and went to bed early. Maybe if I could fall asleep, the time until I could go to school would pass faster. Unfortunately, my brain was racing with thoughts about school, and I found myself staring wide-eyed at the ceiling of my bedroom. As much as I tossed and turned, I couldn’t fall asleep. My eyelids felt like they were spring-loaded, leaping back open as I tried to close them. I tried counting sheep, and reached 2,639 before I gave up on that strategy. It seemed like hours passed before my brain finally managed to shut itself down for the night, and I fell blissfully into a dreamless sleep.

~0~

I awoke with a start, instantly remembering exactly why today was so important. I practically sprang out of bed, throwing on the first clothes I found in my wardrobe. I raced downstairs, not even my mother was awake yet, and began making myself breakfast. I’d been doing that for a while now because my mother always put way too much jam on my toast, or not enough milk on my cereal. Before I even had the cap back on the milk, my spoon began scooping cereal towards my mouth. I wolfed down the entire bowl in two minutes flat: a new record. I didn’t often eat this fast, but when there was something important to be done, the task of feeding myself needed to be done with as soon as possible.

My mother finally came downstairs after I’d checked the contents of my backpack for the fifth time. She progressed through her morning routine painfully slowly, seemingly sipping her coffee one millilitre at a time.

“Mum, can’t you hurry up? I don’t want to be late,” I urged.

“Jim, it’s only 7:30 in the morning. School doesn’t start for another hour. You’re not going to be late,” she assured, raising her mug to her lips for another miniscule sip.

“I don’t want to be just barely on time either. If you get there when it starts, you’re late.”

“You’re not missing anything important by getting there on time. Nothing interesting happens before the school day officially starts, so there’s no reason for me to get you there any earlier than I have to.”

“Just fifteen minutes early? Please?” I begged. “I want to make sure I get my bearings.”

“Okay, fifteen minutes early is reasonable. Have you eaten? I’d hate for you to start school on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, Mum. I ate.”

“Good, did you brush your teeth after?”

“No.”

“Go do that now, please.”

I raced upstairs, skipping over the last step in my haste. I squeezed the toothpaste tube so hard it squirted all over the sink, only some of it landing on my toothbrush. I cleaned it up as quickly as possible, and barely skimmed over all my teeth with the toothbrush before spitting. It was horrible hygiene, but I had more important things on my mind than the health of teeth that were due to fall out anyway.

I dashed back downstairs, nearly crashing into the wall opposite the staircase, and checked my backpack yet again. Nothing had spontaneously disappeared. My mother was still sitting at the counter drinking her coffee, but I peeked in the mug and saw there were only a few sips left.

“Are you ready yet?” I asked, even though I knew already that the answer was no.

“Almost,” she replied. “We can leave when I finish this article.” 

I glanced over her shoulder at the day’s paper. I couldn’t read yet, (my mother and father refused to teach me, insisting that was school’s job and I just had to wait) but I could tell from the picture that someone had died.

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, nothing important.”

“If it’s not important, why are you reading it?”

“It’s important to me, just not to you.”

“How do you know what’s important or not to me? Maybe I would find it important.”

“It’s adult stuff.”

Of all the excuses my parents gave for not telling me things, this was by far my least favourite. ‘Adult stuff’ described so many things: drinks, books, programs on the telly, and much more. It was quite unfair all the things children weren’t allowed to do. I was never entitled to keep a secret from my parents because it was ‘kid stuff,’ so why should they get to do it?

At last, my mother announced that she was ready to go. I grabbed all my stuff and hurried out to the car. I was inside and buckled in before my mother could even open her door. I kicked my legs against the seat anxiously as she started the engine and we at last pulled out into the street. It was the longest car ride of my life. Every traffic light stayed red for an hour, and the cars in front of us moved at the pace of snails. I was on the verge of having a meltdown when my mother finally pulled into the car park of the school. 

Glancing at the clock in the car, I was shocked to see the ride had taken only fifteen minutes. I hopped out of the car and headed towards the entrance, my mother frantically trailing me. She liked to hold hands with me and Connor whenever we were in a public place, something about not wanting us to get lost. I despised the practice; I could find a large door and open it myself, thank you very much. However, upon stepping inside, I found the school to be much more labyrinthine than I expected. I had no idea which way to turn once I reached the entranceway.

My mother caught up to me, and grabbed my hand without my permission. Reluctantly, I allowed her to keep hold of it and followed her to my classroom. It looked very similar to day care, but with more tables and chairs. A woman I assumed to be my teacher approached us. She was quite short and plump, with shoulder-length brown hair. From all the hair on the legs of her pants, I knew she had at least one cat or dog, but I wasn’t sure which. Their hairs still looked so similar to me.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Murphy. What’s your name?” she asked affably, bending down to look me in the eye. My father watched a lot of telly about businessmen and politicians, and I had observed they always greeted people with a handshake. I extended my hand towards Mrs. Murphy and introduced myself, “Jim Moriarty. Nice to meet you.” She reluctantly accepted my hand and shook it only once before releasing it.

“So formal, I’m impressed. Did you or your husband teach him that?” Mrs. Murphy asked my mother.

“Neither, he picked it up all on his own,” she responded, patting me awkwardly on the head. “Before I leave him here for the day, would you mind if I spoke with you in the hallway for a few minutes? There are some things you should know about Jim.”

“Certainly, we can step outside right.”

“Jim, we’ll be right back. Don’t touch anything,” my mother instructed, closing the door behind her. I desperately wanted to know what she was telling my teacher, but I couldn’t hear a word of their conversation even with my ear pressed against the door. Instead, I decided to survey the classroom more closely. It had lots of toys, most of which were the incredibly boring ones such as cars and blocks, but there were also a few novel ones. Hopefully, they wouldn’t prove to be as pointless as all the others. At the front of the classroom sat a large rug and a chalkboard. On it was written a bunch of words I couldn’t recognize. I really hoped I would learn to read at school, it was proving to be a very practical skill.

Mrs. Murphy and my mother returned to the classroom, and Mrs. Murphy gave me a strange look, still nodding in response to whatever my mother had last told her.

“It shouldn’t be a problem, Mrs. Moriarty. I’ll make sure of that,” she said.

“What shouldn’t be a problem?” I inquired curiously.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” my mother assured. “I’m going to leave now, listen to Mrs. Murphy and please try to be nice to the other children, even if they’re dull.”

“I will, Mum. Goodbye.”

She left, and I realized that showing up early really wasn’t all that beneficial. After a few minutes, other children started to trickle in with their parents. Most of them bounded straight for the toys and started playing. I simply stood vigil by the door and watched the people come and go. Once everyone was here, I counted about twenty total children in my class. Hopefully at least one of them would be a tolerable acquaintance.

“Children,” Mrs. Murphy announced. “Please clean up your toys and join me on the rug at the front of the room.”

Since I had no toys to clean up, I simply moved to sit on the carpet. Mrs. Murphy eyed me suspiciously, and pointed to the piles of toys still on the floor from the others’ rabble-rousing. Did she seriously expect me to clean up their mess? I didn’t touch a single one of those toys. Putting them away should be the responsibility of those that actually used them. Regardless of the sheer injustice, Mrs. Murphy instructed me to help. I huffed and reluctantly placed a single red car back in the car box. I looked back to the teacher for approval, and she told me to keep going until the mess was all cleaned up.

“No. Why do I have to clean up the toys if I never even played with them in the first place?

“Because that’s what we do in my classroom, we help each other,” she chided. I wasn’t anxious to begin my school career as a notoriously naughty child, so I heeded her request and continued putting things in their boxes until the floor was spotless. All the children found a seat on the rug, and I moved towards the outside of the clump. The rug was barely big enough to fit all of us, and I did not enjoy being squished like a sardine against kids I’d only known for half an hour.

“Since this is our first day, we’re going to go around and introduce ourselves,” Mrs. Murphy said. “I’m Mrs. Murphy, and what’s your name?”

She went around to every single kid in the class, making my brain swim with the abundance of names. There were two Mary’s, Noah, Jason, Megan, Sydney, Joshua, Adam, Patrick, Harry, Michael, Janet, Emily, Robin, Mark, Richard, Cassie, and Sue. While I processed the names as they were said aloud, I didn’t bother to remember the face they belonged to. If any of these people were actually worth getting to know, I could ask them to remind me of their name.

“Great, now that we’ve done that, I’m going to read a story. Afterwards, we’ll talk about our schedule for the year and all that we’re going to learn.”

She proceeded to read aloud some picture book about a dog and a cat that make friends, or maybe the dog ate the cat in the end; I wasn’t really paying attention. When she finally closed the book, and all the other kids started clapping like they’d just heard the winner of the literature Nobel Prize, she began to list all the things we’d be learning this year. We would start with simple review of things we might already know: the alphabet and counting numbers. Later on, we would start to learn the sounds of different letters and put them together into words to learn how to read. This concept excited me, since I’d been desperate to delve into the world of written language for so long. We would also be introduced to basic maths: adding, subtracting, and shapes. I’d heard of maths before, but my parents had never taught me anything about it. I knew it had something to do with the numbers I count with, and manipulating them to make different numbers or something like that. It sounded quite interesting, and I was eager to learn more about it. I waited for Mrs. Murphy to continue her list, but was shocked to hear her say that would take us all the way to the end of the year. That was all we were going to learn in an entire school year? Maybe this whole ‘systemized education’ thing wasn’t really my style.


	7. Every Cop is a Criminal

Most of the day passed by uneventfully; since it was the first day, we didn’t learn anything beyond the rules of the classroom, most of which were just common sense and manners. After Mrs. Murphy talked at us some more, we were sent out to recess. This consisted of being released onto a big field with a jungle gym in one corner. I certainly did not want to play tag with the other children, so I wandered around the field, identifying the different species of plants growing all over the place. My father had read a book about flora with me, and I stored away all the useful information about the different plants. After that we ate lunch. Everyone else sat frighteningly close together and chattered about frivolous, immature things. Consequently, I got a large chunk of the table all to myself where I could eat in peace.

Once lunch ended, we returned to the classroom for more play time. How exhilarating. Just as I was considering sneaking my wooden puzzle out of my backpack where I had stowed it away, one of the boys approached me cautiously. If I remembered correctly from the meet-and-greet this morning, his name was Michael.

“Hi,” he greeted hesitantly. “I saw that you sat by yourself at lunch, and my Mummy says that it’s nice to try to make friends with someone who is lonely.”

“What makes you think I was lonely? Alone and lonely are not synonymous,” I replied curtly.

“What does sin-on-i-mus mean?” he asked, sounding out the word ridiculously slowly in order to pronounce it correctly.

“It means to have the same meaning. Alone and lonely don’t necessarily mean the same thing.”

“Oh, okay. Well, if you’re not lonely, I guess you don’t need me, huh?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Well, you’re welcome to join me and Harry if you’d like. We’re playing pirates.”

He scampered off to rejoin his friend. Why would he assume I was lonely? Couldn’t he reason that if I wanted company, I could have easily attained it by scooting three feet to my left? I could have done that, if I’d wanted to be near other people. I simply didn’t want to associate with any of these numbskulls. This was school; I was here to learn, and they sure weren’t going to teach my anything.

At the end of the day, Mrs. Murphy instructed us to gather all our things we would be bringing home and put them in our backpacks. She then called everyone to the rug for what she called a ‘closing.’ She began by asking if anyone had to use the bathroom. She had done this often throughout the day, every time we transitioned to another activity. I guess as a primary school teacher, she was on high alert for bathroom-related accidents. With that out of the way, she asked the class what their favourite part of the day was. Her inquiry was met with a forest of raised hands (that was apparently the rule in a classroom: you had to raise your hand if you wanted to speak). She called on everyone one by one. Most people said recess or playing with the toys. One particularly chubby kid said lunch before complaining that he was hungry. When she ran out of raised hands, she began picking the students who hadn’t volunteered.

“Jim,” she eventually called. “What was your favourite?”

I had no clue how to respond. In all honesty, none of today was even worthy of the title ‘least despised,’ much less ‘favourite.’ Instead of simply blurting out something I’d heard one of the other kids say to prevent drawing extra attention to myself, I told Mrs. Murphy: “I didn’t have a favourite part of today. I came to school thinking I would get to learn; instead, we just played all day. I already know how to play. I want to do something worth my time.”

“Jim, I would appreciate if you wouldn’t take that tone with me. But I am sorry your first day of school didn’t live up to your expectations. Don’t fret, we’ll begin learning new things tomorrow. Today was just a transition day for you to get used to a classroom.”

“Okay,” I sighed. At this rate, we’ll have reviewed half the alphabet by Christmas—if we’re lucky.

“That’s the end of our day. It was a pleasure to meet you all. You can wait at your desks until dismissal.”

I sat down and rested my chin on my hands. My desk was right across from that of this red-headed girl named Emily. She kept whispering into the ear of the boy next to her, causing them both to erupt into fits of giggles.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Emily immediately countered.

“Nothing can’t possibly be so hilarious. You have to be laughing at something.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“If you’re so desperate to keep me out of it, would you mind keeping it down?”

“Dude, don’t be so mean,” the boy she was talking to said. “If you want to know so bad, we’re laughing at you.”

“Please, enlighten me. What about me has you so tickled?”

“You’re a freak,” Emily said bluntly.

“Oh? Believe me, this freak could find far more colourful adjectives to describe how he views you.”

“He’s doing it again,” the boy grumbled. 

“Doing what?”

“You talk like a grown-up, it’s creepy,” Emily stated.

“You’re just envious of my superior vocabulary and grasp of sentence structure, I smirked. Admittedly, I may have embellished that sentence with big words for dramatic effect.

“Even if I knew what you just said, I’m not going to respond. I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“Good riddance.”

I huffed and turned around in my seat to stare at the clock, whose hands were crawling around the face like a fish trying to swim through molasses. Man, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Would I have to spend my entire life surrounded by idiots? I wasn’t sure I could even handle the rest of the school week. 

At last, the bell rang, and we were dismissed for the day. I practically shoved people out of my way in my haste to escape that place. I spotted my mother’s car immediately, and sprinted towards it. As I climbed in, she began bombarding me with questions on how my first day of school went.

“Mum, it’s still too easy. We’re hardly going to learn anything. Most of the day she makes us play with stupid toys,” I complained loudly.

“Jim, it was only the first day, at least give it a chance before you decide you hate it.”

“I’ll give it the rest of the week. If I haven’t learned something by then, you need to help me into a more advanced class.”

“That sounds fair enough. On Friday, you’ll tell me if you’ve changed your mind.”

“Highly doubtful…”

~0~

I fulfilled my promise to my mother and endured the torment of a full week at school. Every day was the same routine: play, read an incredibly monotonous children’s book, play, go outside, eat lunch, play, have a small lesson, go home. The lessons consisted of a half-hour of looking at three-letter words written on the chalkboard and attempting to pronounce them. I caught on to the nuances of the English language far before any of the other kids. The vowels were pronounced differently depending on the other letters they were surrounded by. During play time, I would pull out a book I’d taken from Mrs. Murphy’s bookshelf in the classroom. By Thursday, I could easily comprehend every single one of them. As I read, Mrs. Murphy watched me uncomfortably closely, muttering to herself. I wondered if there was an unwritten rule about not touching her books, but she never took them away, so I assumed it must be something else.

The worst part was listening to Emily and her friend Noah. They always snickered at me when they thought I couldn’t hear them. Noah even went so far as to put a note on my desk, if one could even consider it a note. On it was written just one word scrawled in blue crayon: FREEK. Such class. If you’re going to insult me, at least spell it correctly.

Friday after school, I immediately told my mother that my mind hadn’t been changed even one little bit. I was going to suffocate from boredom if I wasn’t moved to a more advanced class. She reluctantly conceded, and promised to write my teacher a note requesting I move up.

“Can I bring it to her on Monday?” I asked.

“Yes, you’ll give it to her then. Hopefully, something will be arranged before the end of next week. In the meantime, if you’d like to bring a book from our shelves at home to read while the other kids are playing, you’re welcome to,” she said.

“Oh, good. I’ve already gone through all the abominations on Mrs. Murphy’s bookshelf. They all have essentially the same plot; the main difference between them is the type of animal the main character is.”

“Yes, I suppose that would get boring.”

“Boring would be an understatement.”

Once again, I had something important to look forward to. I couldn’t believe I had actually convinced my mother to consider moving me up a class. Hopefully, my patience this time would yield something more engaging.


	8. A Time for a Change

Monday morning, I raced into the classroom, my mother’s note clutched tightly in my hand like a lifeline. I marched straight up to Mrs. Murphy and slapped it onto her desk.

“My mother and I have a request,” I stated.

“Do you now?” she said condescendingly. “What’s the problem?”

“This class is beneath me,” I snarled.

“So, I presume you want to be moved somewhere more suited to your… peculiarities.”

“What the bloody hell are you implying?” 

My father had been watching telly last night, and I’d hidden behind the couch to listen in. The characters in his programs always used vulgar language, and it certainly made my father pay attention to them. This was the perfect opportunity for me to see if it worked in reality. Mrs. Murphy’s eyes bulged, and she frowned deeply.

“Jim, that kind of language will not be tolerated in my classroom.”

“Good thing I won’t be in your classroom much longer.”

“I’ll take a look at your mother’s letter and talk to the administration. We’ll see if you’ll be allowed to move up,” she sighed. “Run along now, you’re still in my class for the time being.”

I whiled away the rest of the day, keeping a close eye on Mrs. Murphy. She read my mother’s letter at least three times just in the morning; and another four that afternoon. About an hour before the end of the school day, she got a phone call from the office. She spoke very quietly so as not to reveal the topic of her conversation, but I could easily tell it was about me. She continuously glanced in my direction; how obvious could she possible be? The call lasted for about five minutes; when it ended, she trudged over to her desk and began composing a letter, assumedly for my mother.

At dismissal, she gave me the letter and specific instructions to give it to my mother (no peeking). As I walked out to the car park, I blatantly ignored her directions and opened the letter. Her handwriting was abominable, but I managed to deduce that it went something like this:

Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty-  
I have read and considered your letter requesting your son Jim be relocated to another class of a higher difficulty. I have observed him throughout this past week, and marvelled as his intelligence. It is quite evident your son is quite special, and the pace of this class will not allow him to recognise his full potential. I have discussed it with the school’s administration, and we have agreed that moving him up to a higher class will benefit him greatly. However, the social aspect of a school environment appears to challenge him significantly. He refuses to interact meaningfully with his peers. While this may be attributed to his superior intelligence, it should be monitored as he is exposed to older children who are more his level. It would be regretful if my allowing him to move up hinders his social development. All that remains for the process to be completed is the approval of his parents or guardians; if you would sign the attached paperwork and return it to school, we can assure he is placed in a more appropriate class as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation,   
Lilah Murphy

I was so engrossed in reading the letter; I didn’t notice I had stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk until someone shoved me aside. I bumped against several other people like a pinball before I regained my balance. When I finally reached the car, my mother immediately asked, “What do you have there?”

“Mrs. Murphy’s letter about moving up. She told me not to read it, but I did anyway.”

“Jim, why would you disobey her? That letter was intended for me and Dad to read. It’s up to us whether we share it with you.”

“She put the letter in my hands, what did she expect? If it was so secret, she could have mailed it straight to you.”

“Give it to me right now. That was wrong. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I surrendered the letter to her, and we drove home in silence. She sent me straight to my room when we arrived, so I sulked up the stairs. What she didn’t know was that the ceilings in our house were relatively thin, and nowhere near soundproof. I could easily make out every word of her conversation with my father by pressing my ear to the floor.

“Jim’s teacher approved our request for him to move up,” my mother said.

“That’s great!” my father replied.

“Yeah, but she informed us through a letter. She gave it to Jim and told him not to read it, and he did it anyway. Isn’t that a bit concerning?”

“Not particularly. Kids misbehave all the time. A secret was placed easily within his grasp, why wouldn’t he try to find out about it?”

“Okay, you have a point. But she also said that he was struggling socially, not making any friends or even bothering to talk to the other kids.”

“So?”

“That behaviour is a little too introverted, it’s not healthy.”

“So what if he’s shy? That’s probably not even the reason; the other kids might simply not interest him because they’re too immature.”

“Okay, but we should definitely keep an eye on him. If he doesn’t make a friend, he’s going to go crazy being so isolated.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe he likes being alone?”

“James, nobody likes being alone.”

“And no four-year-old would ask his dad to borrow his copy of Crime and Punishment for pleasure reading. Jim is different.”

“He didn’t really ask for that book, did he?”

“No, that was an exaggeration. But I had you for a second, didn’t I?” he chuckled. “It was actually Harry Potter. But still, most kids his age can’t read the Cat in the Hat.”

“Okay, I’ll agree with you on that point. But I still can’t believe he would want to spend his whole life by himself.”

“Just give him time. He probably hasn’t met the right person yet. Maybe friendship is like marriage to him, he’s only compatible with a select few.”

“You mean one person? Marriage should only work with one person.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever. Just sign the papers and let the kid move to a higher class.”

“Based on what they’ve seen so far, they’re going to put him in second class.”

“Sounds good to me. Man, imagine being four and going to school with kids three or four years older. Incredible. We should have more kids, there’s something magical about our combined genes.”

“Very funny, but no way. It’s hard enough managing these two boys.”

“Have you ever heard of sarcasm? Living with me, you should be pretty fluent.”

At this point, they descended into pointless rambling and flirting with each other, so I tuned out. Why were they so concerned that I didn’t have any friends? I’d never met a single person my age whose presence was tolerable for longer than twenty minutes. 

My behaviour was perfectly healthy: if something wasn’t worth doing, I simply didn’t do it. It was a practical approach, and I was content. I had no intention of changing any aspect of my lifestyle. The only thing that mattered was that I was soon to be moved up. The anticipation of actually learning more than the ABCs was exhilarating. I couldn’t wait to be through with Mrs. Murphy and her stupid classroom. I’d probably miss story time least of all.

~0~

The first day of second class was far more engaging than Mrs. Murphy’s class. Since it wasn’t the first day for any of the other kids, we didn’t waste time on frivolous introductions. My new teacher, Mrs. Scott, simply told the other students my name and that I’d be joining their class for the rest of the year. Instantly, twenty-some pairs of eyes focused entirely on me. I heard hushed murmurs of ‘How old is he?’ and ‘Bloody hell, he looks two years old.’ I inwardly smirked; being in second class as a four-year-old was an incredible feat. I couldn’t wait to demonstrate my intelligence to all these ordinary people.

Without further ado, we started on lessons. No play time in this class, which pleased me to no end. Mrs. Scott stood in front of the blackboard, writing important names and dates as she discussed basic history. It wasn’t a particularly fascinating topic, the first prime minister of the United Kingdom and all that, but it was definitely a step up from the ABCs.

After history, we worked on parts of speech. Nouns were people, places, or things; verbs were action words; and adjectives described nouns. She distributed practice worksheets, and we had to circle all the nouns in a series of ten sentences. I raced through, finishing five minutes before anyone else even looked up from their papers. I double-checked every answer to ensure perfection. I couldn’t mess up this early in the game; the other kids would see me as a dumb little kid. While I certainly was much younger than they, I would not allow them to pass me off as dumb.

“Is everybody finished?” Mrs. Scott asked. A murmur of consent rose from the class. She wrote the first sentence on the board and asked for a volunteer to come up and circle the nouns. My hand immediately shot into the air: I wouldn’t miss an opportunity for a good first impression. However, she didn’t call on me, instead picking a girl with blond plaits. She rose from her seat and began circling with the chalk. The sentence read: The boy went to the store to buy bread and milk. Out of those words, she circled boy, bread, and milk. Noticing the mistake, I frantically waved my raised hand to correct it.

“Jim, is there a problem?” Mrs. Scott inquired.

“She missed one,” I blurted out. The girl blushed and read the sentence over again. She circled ‘store’ and returned to her seat.

“Very good, Izzy. You recognised that ‘store’ is a place, and therefore also a noun. One big hint to look for is words like ‘a,’ ‘an,’ or ‘the.’ These are called articles, and they’re a special kind of adjective. If you see one before a word, that word is usually a noun.”

We continued like this through the other nine sentences on the paper. On number six, she called on me to go to the board, and I executed it perfectly. I didn’t miss a single noun, and my circles even looked good. I was just beginning to think that school at this level just might be tolerable, when we switched to maths.


	9. Have Some Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Welcome to 2018

My parents often used the phrase ‘I love you’ when saying goodbye or goodnight to one another or to me. I would mindlessly repeat it back to appease them without truly comprehending its meaning. I can’t remember really loving anything until that first maths lesson.

Everything just clicked. Two time two is four, four times three is twelve, eight times eight is sixty four; it all made perfect sense, and I was hooked. I enthusiastically raised my hand to answer every question presented to the class, and was even called on a few times. In fact, when the lesson ended, I felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment. I didn’t want it to be over; I needed more! Fortunately, second class was a high enough level to include homework. Homework was just like the practice we did in class, but we weren’t allowed to do it until we got home. Something about refreshing one’s memory of the material.

As soon as I got home, I rushed upstairs to my room to do my homework. It was simply two worksheets: one on nouns and verbs, and more maths practice. I decided to save the best for last, and started with the nouns one. I finished it within five minutes, and moved on to maths. That one I finished within three minutes. Disappointed that it was already over, I trudged back downstairs to complain about my quickly-increasing boredom.

“Why don’t you play with Connor?” my mother suggested, busy doing laundry.

“He’s boring and stupid,” I moaned. “Playing with him is no fun.”

“Do not speak of your brother that way, he’s not stupid. Go back to your room, I’m not entertaining you. Consider it your punishment.”

Reluctantly, I ascended the stairs yet again and flopped onto my bed. I needed something to cure this incessant ennui. I fixated on the idea to ask Mrs. Scott for extra homework tomorrow. She could give me extra practice worksheets that would keep me busy longer. For the time being, I resigned myself to messing with my wooden puzzle. I still hadn’t managed to get it back together.

~0~

The next day, Mrs. Scott heeded my request for extra homework and asked me to remind her at the end of the day when she passed it out. This success put me in a good mood for the entire day; I even managed to refrain from sighing when the other kids got easy problems wrong. In addition to the usual practice, Mrs. Scott gave us a couple challenges. She wrote the basic definitions of other, more complicated, parts of speech on the board along with a sentence: She went to the store down the street earlier and bought ripe pineapple.

“Anyone who can correctly identify the part of speech of every word in the sentence will get a sticker!” she announced. I couldn’t care less about the sticker, but I wanted to prove to myself that I could master this subject. I started with the easy ones I already knew: nouns, verbs, and adjectives. I quickly identified went, store, street, bought, ripe, and pineapple as one of those three. For the others, I studied Mrs. Scott’s notes on the board. Pronouns replaced nouns, so that took care of ‘she.’ She’d told us about articles yesterday, so I marked down both of the ‘thes.’ That left to, and, and earlier. Her notes said that conjunctions joined clauses, words, or phrases, and that seemed to apply to the word ‘and.’ It joined the two sections of the sentence. ‘Earlier’ appeared to be an adverb, it described when she went to the store, and ‘to’ was a preposition. It indicated where she went, involving the noun ‘store.’ 

When I finished, my mind actually felt exercised for the first time since my senses were still sorting themselves out in infancy. I glanced around the room only to see that all the other kids were still staring at their papers, and many kept erasing violently. 

“Is anybody finished yet?” Mrs. Scott asked, receiving a chorus of loud ‘nos.’

“I’m finished, Mrs. Scott,” I replied timidly. Many pairs of eyes glared at me; the others always reacted this way when I showed them up.

“Could you tell us what your answers are? Maybe you could teach the rest of the class how you did it.”

I stood and walked to the front of the room. I picked up the slim, white chalk and began marking the words in the sentence. I had to stand on my tip-toes and stretch really far because of where Mrs. Scott had written the sentence. I could hear muffled giggles behind my back as I worked. When I finished, I began explaining—very slowly and deliberately—exactly how I figured out what all the words were. It was the way Mrs. Scott always talked when teaching something new, and I figured the other kids wouldn’t be able to keep up if I went too fast. 

Mrs. Scott gave me a thumbs-up of approval when I completed my explanation. I had gotten them all right! As I returned to my seat, I couldn’t help but hear the poorly concealed whispers.

“That kid is a freak.”

“That is not normal.”

“Does he age backwards? I’ll bet he’s really eighty, but trapped in a little kid’s body.”

“They should put him in some sort of facility.”

But one comment in particular stuck out.

“Wow.”

I wasn’t sure exactly who said it, but it was one of the only things a peer had ever said to me that didn’t carry a distinctly negative connotation. I sat down in my seat and was surprised to feel someone tapping my shoulder. I glanced over at the kid poking me and gave him a questioning glance.

“How’d you get to be so smart?” he asked. I didn’t even know the kid’s name, yet he was complimenting me.

“I don’t know, it kind of just happened,” I explained.

“How old are you?”

“Four.”

“Amazing. When I was four, I could barely count to twenty. Much less understand all this stuff. I don’t really understand it now, and I’m seven. Almost eight.”

Before I even realised what I was proposing, the words had slipped out of my mouth: “Would you like me to help you? I might be able to explain this in a way you could understand.”

“Really? That’d be great.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem. When would you like to do it? We could talk during lunch or recess if you’d like.”

“I already told Ryan I’d play ball with him at recess, but we can do it during lunch. Or maybe sometime after school too.”

“Absolutely,” I replied, a little shell-shocked. I’d never been invited to hang out after school with someone before. Sure, my mother had forced me to go to ‘play-dates’ with her friends’ kids, but that didn’t count. This kid actually invited me, enlisted my help in understanding the material. I’d never considered myself lonely before, had never yearned for the attention of another person, but knowing that someone desired my company filled a gap in my soul that I didn’t even realise existed in the first place.

I spent the entirety of that morning contemplating the coming lunch with my new acquaintance. I was hesitant to call him a friend, since we’d only spoken for a total of thirty seconds, and I had forgotten to ask his name. Never before had anyone considered using my intelligence to improve their own instead of just insisting it was unnatural. It was during the day’s history lesson that the thought struck me like a blow from a baseball bat.

I had always wanted an intellectual equal, and since Connor had greatly disappointed on that front, I was still in the market. Even if he didn’t understand basic parts of speech, this boy was smart enough to utilise the perfect resource to improve: me. That automatically set him apart from all the other children in my class. Maybe, just maybe, he could be the one I’d been searching for: someone who shared my view of the world and had similar interests. Even if he wasn’t quite there yet, he could become my apprentice, my accomplice—my partner in crime, so to speak. He had already asked for my help in matters of the mind once, so he likely wouldn’t resist further training. I could mould him into my perfect match.

The idea had me so enthralled, I completely missed the bell dismissing us to recess. I didn’t get up from my seat until I glanced around and noticed the flood of children leaving the classroom with their coats. I snapped out of my reverie and rushed to follow them. Most of the time, I would wander the fields during recess just to pass the time. Personally, I saw it as a deplorable waste of time that could be better spent learning. I would occasionally observe the other children in their silly games and marvel at what passed for entertainment in their funny little brains. 

Today, I followed my acquaintance down the hall and out into the field. I wanted to learn as much about him as I possibly could before our extended interaction at lunch. He and another boy (Ryan, if I remember correctly) grabbed one of the balls from the bins and ran to play catch. They simply kicked, swatted, and tossed the ball back and forth so many times that my neck hurt attempting to follow its trajectory. Throughout this, they made comments and laughed with each other whenever they failed to catch the ball. As hard as I tried, I failed to see the point of this endeavour; however, I did observe the humour in taking a ball to the face. My new acquaintance didn’t show any more signs of exceptional intelligence, but he did drop the ball far fewer times than Ryan did. Regardless, physical coordination was also a commendable trait.

Finally, the bell rang to signal the end of recess. The children dashed to the doors and raced for the first spots in the lunch line. Once I had my food, I scanned the room for my acquaintance. I spotted him still in line about ten children behind, so I took my usual seat in the back. It was far quieter back there, much more suited for thinking and, in this case, teaching. I saw him reach the front of the line and begin searching the room, presumably for me. I didn’t want to make a scene of standing and waving my arms around, so I just sat and waited for him to spot me. It wouldn’t be that difficult, I was the youngest in the room by at least two or three years, and the shortest by at least ten centimetres. As I expected, his eyes landed on me and he walked over to my table.

“Hi,” I greeted casually.

“Hey,” he replied. “Thanks for agreeing to help me. I was a little embarrassed to tell the teacher that I didn’t get it, the whole class would have heard.”

“That makes sense. Why weren’t you embarrassed to tell me?”

“I don’t know. I guess, since you’re younger, I thought you wouldn’t judge me like the others would. Oh, and please don’t tell anyone I asked you for help, they’ll laugh at me if they knew I was being tutored by a four-year-old.

“I won’t tell. Now, what exactly don’t you understand?”

We spent the whole lunch period going over the parts of speech and trick to identifying them. Neither of us managed to eat much of our lunch, we were so focused. What surprised me is how fun working with another person was. I’d always done everything alone, even when Mrs. Scott allowed us to discuss the work with our tablemates. He liked to crack jokes about lots of little things, and I found myself laughing along with him. He shared some of my opinions on our classmates and their eccentricities. 

“Have you ever seen Christopher pick his nose?” he asked me after he’d aced a practice sentence I’d given him.

“Yes, I’m surprised he hasn’t given himself a nosebleed yet.”

“I don’t know how he manages to get two knuckles deep, his nostrils must be really long.”

“Either that, or he’s getting at his sinuses.”

“I don’t know what those are, but that was funny anyway.”

We laughed so hard that we simultaneously choked on our food. The lunch bell rang after what felt like a pitifully short time. I guess things go by faster when you’re occupied and having fun. As I tossed the remainder of my lunch in the trash, I realised I still didn’t even know his name. I ran to catch up with him, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, I apologise for being rude, but I totally forgot to ask: what’s your name?”

“Sebastian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was anyone waiting for him to show up? It wouldn't be a story about Moriarty without some Sebastian, would it?


	10. And I Laid Traps

During the car ride home that afternoon, I bombarded my mother with everything that happened that day. I told her about eating lunch with Sebastian and his suggestion of hanging out after school.

“That’s fantastic,” she said. “You’ve made yourself a friend.”

“I wouldn’t consider him a friend quite yet. I’m referring to him as an acquaintance until our relationship progresses,” I explained.

“Okay,” she chuckled. When we arrived at home, I attempted to do my homework, but found myself distracted by thoughts of Sebastian. I was concerned that he would change his mind; if he didn’t need my help learning something, he had very little motivation for talking to me. After lunch, he didn’t say a single word to me the rest of the day. It seemed he already had several other friends. This fact unnerved me. If he was to become my intellectual equal, he couldn’t spend too much time in the company of idiots. They’d erase any progress I managed to make with him. 

This worry consumed me, until I realized that I could do something about it. I could eliminate his desire to hang around people that would hold him back. The necessary steps formulated themselves in my mind. It would be relatively simple; all I needed to do was convince him that anyone else he considered a friend actually hated him. I’d yet to give him any reason not to trust me completely, so he’d likely believe anything reasonable I told him. I was practically a god: the four-year-old genius who gladly helped him when he was struggling. Smiling to myself, I vowed to set this plan in action first thing tomorrow. I just needed to come up with a few believable reasons for Sebastian’s friends to despise him.

~0~

“James, Jim made his first friend at school today,” my mother said at dinner that night.

“Acquaintance,” I quickly corrected.

“Regardless, it’s a huge step. Right, James?”

“Of course. What’s his name?” my father asked.

“Sebastian,” I replied.

“How’d you get to know him?” my mother asked. “Did you approach him, or did he go to you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know, just humour me.”

“He asked me for help with parts of speech, so I helped him during lunch,” I explained. “He probably sees me as more of a tutor than a friend.”

“That’s okay, you can become friends. It’s awfully nice of you to help him. I’m so proud!”

I internally sighed. Leave it to my mother to make a big deal out of nothing.

“I just explained one little thing to him, and he suggested meeting after school if he needed any more help. He spends way more time with his other friends. He didn’t acknowledge me at all after lunch.”

“That’s normal, you two only just met. You’ll get to know him better and he’ll get comfortable talking to you more. Just give it time.”

“That’s what I’m planning to do,” I said. I didn’t tell them about the other half of my plan. I had a feeling they wouldn’t approve of isolating him from his other friends, even if it was for his own good. As the conversation drifted to my father’s day at work, I zoned out. I continued mentally tweaking my plan for tomorrow because I couldn’t allow any hitches. It had to go perfectly, or I’d lose this rare chance at a worthy ally.

~0~

The next morning at school, I waved cautiously at Sebastian from across the room, fearing he would ignore me. To my surprise, he waved back and smiled before resuming his conversation with Ryan. Ryan was to be my first target. I remembered the ball game he and Sebastian had played yesterday, and how much better at it Sebastian had been. I would tell Sebastian that Ryan thought he was a big show-off, always bragging about how good he was at sports. If all went well, this would brew resentment, and Sebastian would be one step closer to freedom from bad influence. 

There were a few other boys in the class he often talked to: Ben, Lawrence, and Daniel. I would have to observe their interactions more closely before determining a logical complaint for them to have about Sebastian. For the rest of the day, I listened in on their conversations as surreptitiously as possible. Four hours and three close calls later, I had a very good map of Sebastian’s social circle. He and Ben had known each other since before primary school, so that would be the most difficult relationship to drive a wedge into. Lawrence and Daniel were in his class last year, and the three of them liked the same superhero or some trivial thing like that.

Since I already knew what I’d say to Sebastian about Ryan, I decided to get started on that leg of the plan right away. Just before recess, I asked him if he wanted to eat lunch with me again so we could practice more parts of speech, and he accepted. I spent that recess watching his ball game from a distance. He far outmatched Ryan.

“You’re really good at catch,” I told him as we sat down together at the same table from yesterday.

“Thanks. My dad and I practice all the time at our house.”

“I almost feel bad for Ryan, you’re way better at it than he is.”

“I guess that’s true, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I think he plays with me to practice and get better.”

“Oh. That’s… interesting,” I said, trailing off.

“Why did you say it like that?”

“Because I heard him talking to Ben earlier today, and he said you were a big show-off. You’re always bragging about how good you are at everything. That’s not my opinion; I’m just quoting what Ryan said.”

“I can’t believe he would think that. I don’t brag about winning. I always encourage him when he makes a good catch. Why would he say such a thing?”

“Maybe he finds your encouragement somewhat demeaning. Like you’re looking down on him.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe Ryan of all people would call me a show-off. He always brags about his good grades to me, even though he knows I’ve been struggling a bit. I have to go talk to him.”

Sebastian made to stand up and march over to Ryan’s table, but I quickly stopped him.

“No, no, no, don’t go talk to him. That’ll make it worse!”

“How?”

I struggled to come up with a believable answer on such short notice. Fortunately, Sebastian wasn’t yet the acute observer I would help him to become.

“That’ll just give him even more to envy. By talking civilly to him about it, you’re being the bigger person. While that may seem like the right thing to do, it’s just showing off another way in which you’re superior to him. He’ll probably take it the wrong way, and then you’ll be even worse off than you already are,” I explained breathlessly. As far as last-second explanations go, it wasn’t half bad.

“Whoa, I didn’t think about it like that. Thanks for looking out for me, Jim. What would I do without you?”

I internally sighed with relief. My whole plan had almost come crashing down right then and there. I needed to be more careful in the future. Another slip like that and Sebastian would turn on me. I could not lose this chance now, I’d worked so hard to earn the trust of this one acquaintance, it could be months—or even years—before another opportunity like this presented itself.

Throughout the next week, I was elated to observe that Sebastian didn’t approach Ryan once. He played with Ben at recess instead, and gave Ryan a weird look if he approached with their usual ball. I also spent many hours wracking my brain for a strategy on eliminating Lawrence, Daniel, and Ben. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t come up with a single plausible approach for Ben. As for Lawrence and Daniel, I had a tentative idea that would work if Sebastian trusted me as much as I hoped he did.

All I ever heard the three of them talk about was how much they loved Superman. But, what if Daniel and Lawrence didn’t really love him as much as Sebastian did? What if they secretly found the depth of his obsession somewhat annoying? Or they secretly worshipped some other hero, and only discussed Superman with Sebastian to humour him? My entire plan was riding on the hope that this newfound knowledge would upset Sebastian.

I rehearsed what I would say to Sebastian throughout recess. I wasn’t going to initiate this part of the plan for at least a few weeks; it would be incredibly suspicious for Sebastian’s friends to all turn against him in such a short time. Regardless, I practiced for lack of anything better to do. I earned many confused glances from other kids as I stood under a tree muttering to myself, but frankly I didn’t care if those idiots thought I was delusional. I wanted to make sure my performance was believable: lying to break up friendships was difficult, taxing work. By the time the bell rang, I had it completely memorised. I sat down at my table and waited for Sebastian to join me. My heart hitched in my throat as he stopped on his way over to talk to Ben. Fortunately, after a brief conversation, Sebastian continued over to me, but I could see the distinct frown on Ben’s face as he watched him leave.

“What were you guys talking about?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, nothing. Ben wanted me to sit with him today, but I told him I’d already promised you.”

“Thank you. That was awfully nice; I know how close you and Ben are.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, I spend lots of time with him; it’s only fair I give my other friends a chance.”

“Do you guys hang out after school often?”

“Yeah, all the time. His mum and my mum knew each other at university, so they introduced us before we could even talk. He’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember; there’s nobody I trust more.”

From there, the conversation drifted to unimportant things, but I was only half paying attention. The majority of my brain power was focused on the fact that this was going to be more difficult than I originally thought. How could I, a little kid he’d known for all of two weeks, possibly convince him to leave a friend he’d known for years? It would take a lot of creativity and patience. I’d have to prove to him that everything he’d ever known about Ben was a lie, even thought it wasn’t. To get him to swallow this tall tale, I’d have to package it just right, surround it with just enough truth for the lie to slip in unnoticed. The problem was: I didn’t have many truths about their relationship. No way could I pry Sebastian for information, obviously that would raise far too much suspicion. However, there had to be someone else who knew Sebastian and Ben, and had witnessed any ups or downs their relationship had had over the years. As much as I hated the idea, it was the only possible solution: consult the other children.


	11. The Blitzkrieg Raged

I already possessed a vague idea of Sebastian’s old friends based entirely on who he refused to make fun of when we ate lunch together. I began my search for information by interviewing them. At first, I was worried they’d refuse to answer my questions, but they all seemed surprisingly eager to talk about Sebastian. Apparently, he was ‘popular.’

“You know Sebastian, right?” I inquired as I approached Andrew O’Brien. He and Sebastian had been pretty close friends last year, but they hardly saw each other over the summer.

“Yeah, I know him,” he responded cautiously. “Why?”

“You know he and Ben are good friends?”

“Yes. What exactly do you want?”

“I was just wondering if anything strange has ever happened between them, like a fight or something. Their friendship just seems too good to be true, if you know what I mean. Do they ever disagree about anything?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like I keep tabs on every little argument they have. I barely even know Ben.”

“Okay, thank you for your time.”

I quickly walked away to avoid an inquiry. I didn’t want anyone to suspect my involvement when Sebastian and Ben’s relationship took a turn for the worse. Fortunately, Sebastian didn’t make it widely known that he was friendly with me. It was as if I was taboo or something.

I asked a few others if they remembered any sort of squabble between Sebastian and Ben, but came up empty-handed. I realised that if I wanted anything good, something that had a shot at driving them apart, I’d have to get it straight from the source. I couldn’t go to Sebastian, so I’d have to go to Ben himself. 

“Have you and Sebastian ever had a fight?” I asked bluntly. I decided the best approach would be to get directly to the point as opposed to beating around the bush. It minimised the amount of small talk I’d have to make with someone as horribly thick as Ben.

“Huh?” he blubbered stupidly.

“Have you and Sebastian ever had a fight?” I repeated, enunciating each word.

“I heard the question, I just don’t understand why you’re asking.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have many friends of my own,” I began—a sob story was the best way to get people to talk. I’d even poked myself in the eye a few minutes ago to bring out a few tears. “And you and Sebastian seem to get along so perfectly, I was curious. If you’ve always known you clicked with each other, then that means there’s little hope for me. I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who matches me as well as you match Sebastian.”

“That’s crazy! Nobody fits together perfectly like puzzle pieces or something. Look, I’m sorry you’re having trouble with friends, but it’s not because you haven’t met the right person. You just need to talk to people and get to know them. Even if you have just one thing in common, you could be friends.”

“But what about best friends? The kind who will tell each other everything, even their deepest secrets? How did you and Sebastian get there?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure we’re even there yet. We’ve known each other a long time, but there’s lots of personal stuff I haven’t told Sebastian. I’m sure there are secret things he hasn’t told me.”

“He hasn’t revealed any secrets to you? Are you sure you’re really best friends, then? I thought that was the mark of an ideal friendship.”

“He has told me some secrets, but probably not all of them. We are best friends.”

“What kinds of secrets has he told you?”

“They’re secrets, I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, I get it. He hasn’t actually told you anything, but you’re pretending he has so that you look like best friends. I’ll bet you don’t even know his middle name.”

“I do too, it’s… darn. I can’t remember, but I know he told me.”

“You don’t know your best friend’s middle name? That’s sad. Do you know anything relatively personal about him? Or are you really just acquaintances?”

“I do know stuff about him. I know… I know that he wets the bed when he has nightmares!”

“Really? How’d you know that? Did he tell you?”

“Not really, but he was forced to explain himself when it happened at a sleepover at my house. He made me promise to keep it between me and him. See, we do share secrets. We are best friends.”

“Okay, thank you so much. Hopefully, your advice will help me meet a best friend of my own.”

“No problem little buddy.”

What. An. Idiot. That promise he made never to tell anyone? He broke it without even realising it. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get people to spill once they started talking. People were surprisingly willing to disclose secrets when something they firmly believed was threatened. His advice would surely get me a best friend of my own, yes, but it would leave him without one. Now that I possessed this key information, I could formulate the official plan of action. I was informally calling it ‘Operation Bye Bye Ben.’ Wordplay was never my strong point. 

I would mention the bed-wetting to Sebastian, pretending I’d heard it as a rumour spreading around the class (of course, I would be the rumour-spreader, not the receiver, but Sebastian would never know that.) He’d immediately assume it was Ben who revealed his secret: since he was the only person in the class who even knew about it, that was the only logical conclusion. He’d be incredibly angry with Ben, and who would be there to comfort him? Good ole Jim.

I set this plan into action about a week later, whispering to people whom I barely knew about Sebastian. They all seemed ridiculously pleased to hear a piece of gossip like this, and they ate it up like wolves devouring an elk carcass. After having told only three people, I began to hear murmurs of it around the classroom. A few girls jumping rope kept glancing at Sebastian and giggling during recess. During lunch, some boys passed our table and sniggered. Sebastian hadn’t the faintest clue that all the laughter was about him, he just complained that he wasn’t in on whatever inside joke this was.

A couple of days after the rumours began circulating I broached the topic to Sebastian.

“Sebastian, I really hate to ask, but I have to hear it from a reliable source. People are saying that you’re a bed-wetter,” I said cautiously.

“What? Who’s saying that?” he asked, blushing a violent shade of red.

“Lots of people. It’s all anyone’s talking about. I heard Charlotte and Kathryn talking about it, and Jacob, Owen, Kim, and Christopher.”

“Where did they get that idea? Who told them?”

“So it’s true?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“If it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be so upset. But it’s okay, that’s a common problem. Does anybody in the class know about it? Who would dare to share something so private?”

“The only person who could possible know is Ben, but he would never do something like this. He’s my best friend.”

“If it wasn’t Ben, who could it be? You said he’s the only one who knows.”

“Well, him and my mum, but she doesn’t come to school.”

“Sebastian, I’m afraid it has to be Ben. There’s no other possible explanation.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“Maybe he’s not as good a friend as you think he is. Personally, I’m appalled he would so blatantly abuse your trust. I can’t imagine betraying your friend like that.”

But at this point, Sebastian wasn’t listening to me. He had risen from his seat and was stomping over to Ben’s table. I couldn’t hear the exact words of their conversation, but Ben’s face displayed a look of utter confusion and Sebastian was, if possible, even redder when he returned.

“I can’t believe him. He denied it! He says he never told anybody!”

I knew that Ben hadn’t started the rumour, but he still lied to Sebastian. He had told me the secret, but his simple mind could never have predicted it would turn into this. 

“He’s lying to you. He has to have told someone because there’s no other way this rumour could have started. That’s not very nice of him.”

“You’re right, it’s not. I would never turn one of his secrets into gossip like this. It’s just mean.”

“I know. I’m so sorry Sebastian. If you need anything, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks Jim. You’re a good friend.”

My plan couldn’t have gone better. A week later, Sebastian and Ben still hadn’t spoken to each other. Whenever they ran into each other, their eyes narrowed and they walked away with a scowl. Sebastian now spent both recess and lunch with me instead of any of his other friends. Once I was sure he and Ben wouldn’t be making up, I’d eliminate Daniel and Lawrence and wrap up this business. He wasn’t super close with them, so I was confident I could break them up with little difficulty.

Throughout this whole ordeal, Sebastian and I were discovering even more we had in common. He, too, had a little brother who annoyed him to no end. He enjoyed jigsaw puzzles also, but had never attempted one bigger than one hundred pieces. I promised I’d have him over and we’d master a five hundred together. Most surprising of all was the fact that his father read him the same books that I read myself: Agatha Christie. Sebastian’s father held an important position in the military, something covert he wasn’t allowed to talk about much. He loved mystery novels, and read them to his sons whenever he was home and had time. Our favourite was And Then There Were None. However, I refrained from telling Sebastian that I had suspected Wargrave from the beginning. He had fallen for the obvious trick that it was Vera Claythorne.

Surprisingly, my experience at school was much more enjoyable with Sebastian by my side. When I started school, making friends was nowhere on my to-do list. I’d lived my whole life without friends and thought I was perfectly happy. I had yearned for an intellectual equal, but had practically given up on the concept when Connor was born normal. While Sebastian was certainly no match for my abilities, he was the closest I’d ever come, and likely the closest I’d ever achieve. Despite his shortcomings, I thoroughly enjoyed his presence, and was pleased to have some company during lunch and recess. I saw in him the potential for greatness. He was willing to listen to me and accept my help, so I held out the hope that I could boost him up to a level comparable to my own. 

For the first time in my short life, I felt in control. I had proven to myself that I could achieve my goals with a little planning and careful execution. A sense of ambition rolled and bubbled inside of me like boiling water in a kettle, ready to overflow at the slightest stimulus. With a clear objective and sufficient motivation, nothing could stand in the way of Jim Moriarty.


	12. You and Me

Several years of primary school passed in a blur. Once I had gotten rid of Sebastian’s other friends, he had little desire to make new ones. Apparently he realized that he wasn’t going to find any better than me, so we became a dynamic duo of sorts. Fortune placed us in the same class every single year, and we had all sorts of fun. Together, we assembled a fifteen hundred piece puzzle of a bunch of stamps. We thought it was missing a piece, but Connor had just stolen it so he could claim he finished the puzzle. Sebastian threatened to beat him up, but I insisted we hide his favourite toy instead. To this day, he still hasn’t found it.

We got into a fair share of trouble too. Neither of us was very content to follow the restrictions and rules of the school, and we took advantage of many opportunities to wreak havoc. Not all of them were mean-spirited; sometimes we managed to make mischief when attempting to be helpful. I would describe every single one of our glorious escapades, but that would be incredibly tedious. I’ll settle for detailing the time Sebastian and I accidentally caused a major fire in the school kitchen.

The school lunch lady was a bubbly, kind old lady, but she was despairingly hard of hearing. She was notorious for mixing up orders, and most of us were resigned to the fact that we’d either have to scream our requests at her or just accept what she gave us. However, her deafness only became a serious problem when it came to the timers on the ovens.

It’s not like they were particularly quiet timers, but she simply couldn’t hear them unless she was standing right in front of the oven. Because of this, almost everything cooked in the school ovens came out burnt nearly to a crisp. Even scraping it did little to help. Sebastian and I decided to do the entire school a favour and devise a method of alerting the lunch lady to the oven timers.

We considered simply making the alarms louder, but figured that would damage the hearing of everyone else in the room, so we scratched that. The only possible way was to appeal to another sense besides hearing. So, we finalized a plan to turn the auditory timers into visual ones. With a few simple electrical tools, we could rig a flashing light to alert the lunch lady to the timer going off.

I read up on how to rig wires, switches, and the like; I felt totally confident I could make a simple circuit that made a light bulb above the counter flash when the timer went off. The next day, Sebastian and I entered the kitchen and explained our plan to the lunch lady. She was extremely grateful that we would take the time to make her job easier. That wasn’t exactly our goal—we were just trying to improve the quality of the food we were forced to eat—but we let her thank us anyway.

It took only about half an hour to get the rig set up. Sebastian helped me thread the wires and connect the light bulb to the timer on the oven. All that was left to do was test it. The lunch lady placed the day’s meal in the oven and set the timer as usual, and we waited anxiously. As the timer crept towards zero, the butterflies in my stomach did some aerial acrobatics. Failure wasn’t something I was accustomed to, and I had no desire to be introduced to it.

The timer finally sounded, and the light bulb flashed in perfect synchronicity. We did it! The strobe effect easily drew the lunch lady’s attention, allowing her to retrieve the dish on time. However, we didn’t account for the power of the oven versus the wattage of the light bulb. Apparently, one is supposed to add extra resistance to a circuit if the power source is in excess. I had neglected to do that. It short circuited, igniting the contents of the oven anyway. Fire alarms blared, and we fled the building. All that exiting in an orderly fashion stuff goes out the window in the face of a real emergency.

Fortunately, the fire was extinguished before any real damage was done. The lunch lady deemed the contents of the oven edible, and the whole school was forced to choke down charcoal once again. The administration hired a real electrician to fix our faulty circuit, and the lunch lady now has a functioning visual timer. The incident was fondly remembered as the time Jim and Sebastian abandoned their dreams of becoming electricians.

~0~

During our final year of primary school, we were encouraged to participate in the science fair. It was supposed to teach us diligence, academic integrity, organization, and a bunch of other stupid stuff the teachers deemed ‘important life skills.’ I, on the other hand, saw it as an opportunity to display my extraordinary intelligence. Even as the youngest kid in the class, I was still by far the smartest. The only reason I wasn’t allowed to move up further was that the counsellor were concerned about my ‘physical and emotional maturity’ being too far below that of my classmates. Hence, I was stuck with this group. At least I had Sebastian, he was the only reason I didn’t argue about moving up another class or two.

Our science fair projects were to be done in pairs, and our topics could be selected from any listed by our teachers. Sebastian and I immediately teamed up and looked over the list of possible projects.

“A homemade electric motor?” Sebastian read.

“Boring. Nobody wants to watch a coil of wire spin,” I said, exasperated. Almost every idea on this list was incredibly juvenile.

“Solar oven?”

“Yawn.”

“The effectiveness of different methods of cleaning coins?”

“I’m falling asleep just thinking about it.”

“How does mould grow?”

“Disgusting.”

“Testing the Monty Hall problem? What does that even mean?”

“Say that again!”

“What does that even mean?”

“No, before that! The thing from the list.”

“The Monty Hall problem?”

“Yes, we should do that for our project!”

“Sorry, what is the Monty Hall problem?”

“Only the most genius intersection between mathematics and psychology ever created!”

“Okay, we can do that one if you want to. You’ll have to explain it to me, though.”

“To put it simply: there are three doors. Behind two of the doors is empty space, but behind the third is a prize. A person chooses one of the doors, not knowing what is behind them. The ‘host,’ who knows where the prize is, then opens one of the doors he knows is empty. He then gives the person a choice between switching their choice to the other door that’s still closed or sticking to their original choice. Most people choose to stay, but the odds of finding the prize double if the person switches doors,” I explained. I’d read about this problem in a book somewhere, and it had utterly fascinated me.

“What?” Sebastian asked. The look of absolute confusion on his face was priceless; I wish I could have taken a picture of it.

“I’ll explain it to you later when we write the conclusion. First, we have to devise a method of testing it. We’ll need three doors, a prize, and lots of willing contestants. How about we let Connor do the honours of being our first test subject?”

“I’ll just follow your lead, since I have next to no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fantastic! You’re good at that.”

With our hearts set on thoroughly testing both the psychological and the mathematical aspects of the problem, we worked tirelessly gathering materials. We would make a small rig with three miniature doors from which our subjects would choose. The prize would simply be a piece of paper reading ‘Winner’ that could be moved between the different doors. With supervision from the wood-shop teacher, we were allowed to use the power tools to build what we needed. Sebastian did most of the physical work on the doors, as I was busy writing up the prompt and procedures. Also, he was far better with his hands than I was, and—I’ll never tell him this—I was terrified I’d chop off my own finger or something equally as gruesome and disfiguring.

Sebastian did not disappoint on his end of the project. By the end of the week, he’d built a beautiful set of three functioning doors, tiny knobs and all. Behind each was a small compartment for the ‘winner’ paper, and each was labelled with a delicately painted number. I had created numerous data charts for recording our findings, and had asked around to recruit volunteers. We were all set to begin testing the psychology aspect: would people be reluctant to switch to the other door?

We started by testing our immediate families. Both of Sebastian’s parents and my mother stuck with their first choice of doors, and all failed at finding the prize. My father chose to switch and ended up winning, but I suspect he knew the odds were in his favour if he switched. When it comes to games of chance—especially when gambling is involved—my father is an expert. Connor refused to switch doors but still ended up winning, the little bugger. We worked through every friend and acquaintance we knew, even asking a few strangers we met in the hallways at school. Even Ben, who’d hated our guts since he and Sebastian had that big fight four years ago, was asked to participate, but he rudely declined: “I wouldn’t help a freak like you if my life depended on it. How do I know what you’re going to do with whatever ‘data’ you get from me? You’ll probably use it to take over the world and annihilate humanity.”

It’s not like I expected anything better out of Ben. He was in a good mood that day; that comment was rather nice compared to many things he’d said to me in the past. Disregarding Ben, most people were eager to assist Sebastian on his project. Almost as eager as they were to get me off their backs about participating in a scientific study. Between these two factors, we amassed an enormous amount of data over the next few days, enough to be statistically significant by my judgment.

All that was left to do was analyse and present the data in a photogenic manner. I had a feeling we’d be getting a lot of attention from the judges at the science fair. I crunched the numbers and found that eighty percent of people stuck to their original choice of doors. Of those people, only thirty percent won the game. Out of the people who switched doors, seventy percent won. The results couldn’t have been clearer; we had perfectly proved the Monty Hall problem!

I told Sebastian about our findings, and I had to repeat myself twice for him to understand what I was saying though all my excitement.

“Now will you explain to me how this whole thing works? I get that it’s better to switch, but why?”

“It’s simple probability. At the beginning, there is a one in three chance the prize is behind any of the doors. One door is chosen by the subject, and there is a one third chance the prize is behind that door. This means there is a two thirds chance that the prize is behind either of the two other doors. We open a door that we know is empty. There is still a two thirds chance that the prize is behind a door the person didn’t choose. However, one of these doors is now open and clearly empty. Therefore, the two thirds chance falls entirely onto the remaining closed door. By switching to the other door, the subject doubles their chances of winning the game,” I explained, barely taking the time to breathe between sentences. This was my element: cold, hard logic.

“I think I get it, and I’m not asking you to explain it again. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Good. Now, we just have to write it all up before the science fair. We’re ahead of schedule, it’s not until next Thursday.”

“Jim, do you think we have a shot at winning?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure anyone else has a shot.”


	13. Well-Learned Politesse

The day of the science fair arrived, and I picked out my best suit to wear to the presentation. My father always insisted on dressing sharply for important occasions, and I inherited this propensity. I had requested Sebastian dress up as well, so we could make an impression on the judges. Adults always love children dressed up fancy.

The fair was to take place in the cafeteria of the school, since the budget wouldn’t allow for a more elegant venue. The administration had tried their best to make the ordinary room look somewhat special, and had been relatively successful. Any residual stains on the walls from past food fights had been strategically covered with banners. The tables had nice-looking tablecloths on them, but I suspected they had been borrowed from parents to save money. Our booth was positioned in a prime spot just across from the judges’ table; while the judges were contemplating, they would look up and be reminded of our project.

Shockingly, Ben had teamed up with Ryan to make a baking soda volcano. Leave it to him to pick the most obvious and cliché science project in existence. Their booth was two down from outs, next to a potato battery. Looking around, I was pleased to see none of the other children had decided to dress up. Sebastian and I would be memorable simply for our appearance. While I waited for Sebastian to arrive, I repeatedly adjusted the position of the board and our testing rig, never quite satisfied with the alignment.

Sebastian entered the cafeteria about ten minutes before the judging was due to start, wearing a suit and red tie. Between my black tie and his red one, we perfectly complemented the colours of our rig and presentation board. These subtle details were pleasing to the eye and could subconsciously affect the judges’ decision. 

“Hey Jim,” Sebastian greeted. “Are you ready to sweep this competition?”

“Absolutely. You’re looking sharp,” I replied.

“As are you. We have about ten minutes until show time. Does the board look okay?”

“Yeah, it looks great. Let’s go over the game plan. What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Your main job tonight is to smile and nod at whatever I say. And shake the judges’ hands. Do you know how to shake hands properly?”

“Umm, I didn’t know there was a proper way.”

“Let me teach you.” I extended my hand and waited for Sebastian to take it. I demonstrated the proper orientation of my hand against his and the amount of pressure involved in the squeeze. “No more than three seconds, that makes you seem clingy.”

“Got it. How’s this?” He shook my hand firmly, even throwing in a killer smile.

“Perfect.” I grinned. We had this competition in the bag. If it wasn’t the depth of our research or the eloquence of our conclusion that would win over the judges, our professionalism certainly would.

At last, the hands on the clock of the cafeteria reached seven o’clock sharp. The judges entered the room, looking all high-and-mighty like they had been chosen for a job far more important than judging a primary school science fair. Most of them were science teachers from secondary schools, but the administration had actually managed to procure a chemistry professor from a university. The judges dispersed throughout the room and began questioning the students about their projects. The first judge to approach out table was Mr. Miller, a biology teacher. He had never heard of the Monty Hall problem, so I took great pleasure in explaining all the details to him. He followed my explanation easily, nodding and smiling—though I’ve no idea what he found amusing. Maybe it was my short stature in comparison to my incredible poise and flawless delivery.

“Fascinating. Do you have any speculations as to why so few subjects chose to switch doors?” he asked, scribbling notes on his clipboard.

“We theorize that most people are reluctant to admit that they might have been wrong the first time. Also, many of them are familiar with the phrase ‘go with your gut,’ and chose to embody it.”

“Wonderful.”

“Thank you for your time sir,” Sebastian and I said politely as the judge moved on to another table. I glanced over at Ben and his baking soda volcano, pleased to see it had spilled over the table onto the shoes of one of the judges.

Throughout the night, we stood vigil at our table, explaining out experiment to judge after judge as they made their rounds around the cafeteria. All of them seemed very pleased with the detail and precision of our project. Our suits impressed many judges as well, and I couldn’t help purposefully tightening the knot in my tie the same powerful manner I’d seen my father do before he went to a meeting. Sebastian was a massive help also, explaining the process of building the door rig to any judges that demonstrated interest in that aspect. By the time the last judge approached us, my voice was hoarse from the constant talking, but I ignored it and kept up a professional tone. 

The judges all returned to their table to deliberate and discuss the winners. Sebastian and I stood proudly in front of our table, looking as professional as possible. Just as I foresaw, the judges’ eyes fell on us every time they looked up from their notes. I flashed an amicable smile at them each time they glanced my way. I was so focused on the judges and their conversation that I didn’t notice Ben approaching us. Nor did I register the sound of paper ripping and wood splintering.

“Ben, what the hell?” Sebastian exclaimed. He had heard the commotion behind us and turned around to find Ben destroying our project. I flung myself around and immediately a white hot rage roared inside of me. How dare he ruin all of our hard work! I stalked over to Ben, but Sebastian grabbed me by the arm before I could get close enough to attack him. I desperately wanted to rip him limb from limb for this treachery, but Sebastian’s larger size prevented me from escaping his grasp.

“Let me go so I can kill him!” I shouted, struggling futilely against the hand holding me back.

“Jim, it’s not worth it. We’ll just get disqualified,” Sebastian whispered. His words did nothing to calm me down, and I continued to strain to reach Ben.

“This serves you right, freak,” taunted Ben. “You don’t deserve to win this science fair. Anyway, I’m sure you cheated. No little kid could possibly understand such complex mathematics. Did your daddy do it all for you?”

“I understand more than you ever will in your life, you codger!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, watch your language there little buddy. You wouldn’t want the judges to hear evidence of such terrible sportsmanship, they’ll disqualify you.”

I used every ounce of self control I could muster not to scream bloody murder. As much as I hated to admit it, Ben was right; the judges would never choose us if they heard me verbally abusing another contestant. Ben had baited me, teasing and taunting in an attempt to get me to explode. I would not give him exactly what he wanted, so I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth so hard they felt like they would pop out of my mouth. Sebastian released his grip on me, and I dusted myself off.

“If you would please leave us alone and return to your own table,” I said civilly. Ben scoffed and waltzed away, leaving us with the ruins of our beautiful project.

“Will the judges still count it if it looks like this now?” Sebastian asked.

“We’ll have to report that Ben destroyed it, and they’d better still count it,” I growled.

“We have to prove it was Ben. Did anyone besides us see him do it? Any of the judges?”

“I doubt it. If they had, they’d surely have come over to investigate the ruckus. I’m shocked nobody heard me shouting, they must be intensely focused.”

“What do we do if they ask what happened to it?”

“Our best bet is to tell the truth: Ben ripped it to shreds. If they ask Ben, he’ll certainly lie, and it’ll be our words against his. However, who else would have destroyed it? We would never sabotage our own project, so our story will already have more credibility than Ben’s. I wonder what sort of tall tale he’ll weave to explain what happened to our project.”

The judges continued their deliberation for a good five minutes before they decided to pay enough attention to see the current state of their favourite project. They murmured amongst themselves before approaching us.

“What on Earth happened here?” one of them asked. 

“That boy over there with the baking soda volcano came over here and tore all our hard work to shreds,” I explained, attempting to emphasise my youth and innocence in comparison to all these big eleven-year-olds. I also feigned ignorance of any prior relationship with the saboteur; I figured we’d look better if nobody knew of our rocky history with Ben. 

“That’s quite an accusation, are you sure it was him?” she questioned.

“Yes, I saw him do it! He just walked up and smashed it!” I cried, forcing a few tears for dramatic effect. 

“You, young man! Come over here and explain yourself,” she insisted. Ben looked around confused for a few moments, apparently unsure if she was talking to him, the little bastard. The judge pointed straight at him and beckoned, and he was forced to comply. “Jim claims he saw you destroy his project, is this true?”

“No! Why would I do such a thing? His project was wonderful, I’m so sorry to hear it’s been ruined,” he said rather convincingly. I knew he was a filthy little liar, but the judges bought it easily. He snuck me and Sebastian an evil glare before replacing his mask of concern.

“If you didn’t do it, why does Jim report witnessing you tear it apart?” the judge inquired.

“He’s probably trying to get me disqualified. I don’t know why, but he hates me. I’ve never done anything to him, but he still takes every opportunity to ridicule and bully me.” I had to admit that Ben was a decent actor himself; I could actually see tears glistening.

“Unfortunately, this leaves us at an impasse. How are we to decide who is telling the truth, and who is lying? Unless one of you confesses, I’m afraid we’ll just have to disqualify the both of you for poor sportsmanship.”

“What?! That’s not fair!” Ben, Sebastian, and I shouted in unison. “I didn’t do anything!”

“As budding scientists, you should know that a claim requires evidence to give it any sort of credit. Let this be a lesson to you on unfounded accusation,” the judge said with an air of finality. As much as I wanted to argue them all into the ground, the look in Sebastian eyes told me to surrender while I still had some dignity. I resigned myself to picking up the pieces of our wonderful creation. Ben glanced over at us with a smug smile; he’d gotten exactly what he wanted. He hadn’t entered the science fair for his own sake; he’d just weaselled his way in for the sole purpose of forcing me out. I’d never felt such intense loathing towards a single person in all my life. Every piece of splintered wood I picked up I tried to squeeze into a pulp, until a splinter dug itself into my palm. I almost didn’t notice the pain through my impenetrable rage. I wiggled it out with my other hand and flicked it across the room. If only I could do the same for the figurative thorn in my side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, complaints, questions are always appreciated.


	14. Some Restraint

After returning home from the science fair, I stormed upstairs and locked myself in my room. I couldn’t handle interaction with people any longer, and I especially couldn’t cope with my parents’ feeble attempts to comfort me. They didn’t seem to understand that nothing they did or said would make any difference whatsoever. I plopped myself face down on my bed and just laid there. I didn’t cry—I hadn’t done that in years—and this wasn’t sadness: this was pure ire. I was entirely consumed by the desire to eliminate Ben from my life, to send him away somewhere from whence he’d never return, to make him suffer for what he’d done to me.

Of course, I wouldn’t act on these impulses, as that would get me in serious trouble. Even the general population would have enough sense to notice the disappearance of a person, and it would immediately be linked to me and Sebastian because of the science fair incident. Alas, Ben would get away scott-free.

Accepting that Ben wouldn’t pay retribution for the time being, my thoughts drifted to the effects this incident would have on my reputation at the school. Everyone who knew I’d entered expected me to win handedly; what would they say when they found out I’d been disqualified? And for sportsmanship of all things? If I could predict what would get me disqualified from anything, it would be that my utter superiority made the competition unfair to the other entrants. I could almost feel my ears burning as I thought about the gossip that was soon to begin spreading like a virus. I was already a popular topic among my chattier classmates: the boy genius who skipped three grades. The last thing they needed was something even juicier.

But another more pressing thought popped into existence in the back of my mind: how this would affect my teachers’ opinion of me, and if it would be mentioned at parent-teacher conferences. It was nearly the end of the year, the end of primary school itself. Teachers would be discussing my performance, behaviour, and future in the public school system. Would this whole incident come with me to secondary school? Would my new teachers’ first impression of me be ‘the kid who was disqualified from the science fair?’ 

“Jim, don’t be ridiculous,” I told myself aloud. This was just a minor blip on my record; I didn’t even do anything wrong. Any teacher who was forewarned about my attendance to their school would primarily remark the fact that I was three years younger than the average student in my class. They’d be glad to meet and instruct a prodigy such as myself.

Despite this rock-solid argument I’d constructed, the thought kept nagging at me. I wanted confirmation that my teachers still regarded me in high esteem: I needed to hear it from their own mouths that I wasn’t a ‘troublemaker.’ However, it would be ridiculously petty to go up to one of them and ask straight up. That would damage my reputation even more than the science fair incident. The only plausible way to obtain the information I desired was to somehow attend the conference with my parents that was to be held sometime in the coming week.

But there was a problem. Children were forbidden from joining their parents at conferences because the teachers felt the presence of the child prevented the parents from fully expressing their concerns. I understood that—I’d heard some of the things my mother said about me when she thought I couldn’t hear, and she’d never dared say such things when she knew I was within earshot. I would somehow have to listen in without making my presence known. 

It felt like a spy mission: infiltrating a secret meeting to reconnoitre information about a suspect. Only, in this case, the suspect was me. I considered sneaking into the car with them when they left for the conference, but immediately ruled that out. They’d have to get a sitter for me and Connor, and my absence would be quite conspicuous for even the dullest of teenagers. Plus, there was the issue of getting out of the car once we arrived at the school. There was far too great a chance my father would lock me in before I got a chance to open the back door without them noticing.

Another option was to hide out in the school until conference time, but that wasn’t very promising either. My parents would freak out if I didn’t return from school, and there was no decent excuse in existence for staying that long. Also, I’d never get home after the conclusion of the conference. I didn’t fancy being marooned at school overnight, so I scratched that idea.

It seemed that being there physically was impossible, but there were plenty of other methods of listening to a conversation. I knew for a fact my father owned a small recorder—small enough to be easily hidden in a cluttered office. I could simply plant it on my teacher’s desk where I knew she’d host the meeting. The only issue with this was how to turn it on, since I wasn’t sure if it had enough storage to record a few hours of white noise between my leaving school and the commencement of the conference. Plus, I didn’t feel like sorting through hours of nonsense to get to the material I wanted. 

I could rig an overly-complicated Rube Goldberg machine to press the button at the right time, but that would take time, space, and effort I simply did not possess. There were too many variables with that plan. I’d already established that I couldn’t be there in person, but that didn’t mean nobody would be. Sebastian and I already had a decent rapport with the janitor—rapport meaning he didn’t turn us in if he witnessed us doing something wrong, and we ensured he had a constant supply of the ‘good sponges.’ It wouldn’t be rude to ask for this simple favour, would it? All he’d have to do is enter the room under the pretence of cleaning it, start the recorder, and retrieve it after my parents left. Even Mr. Scott could manage that.

Formulating the plan had allowed me to nearly forget about my anger and frustration regarding the science fair catastrophe, but I still wasn’t ready to face my parents and their pitiful consoling attempts. I resolved to hide out in my room until the next morning, and hopefully allowing things to simmer overnight would lessen the intensity of the inevitable discussion of my feelings.

~0~

As I’d hoped, my parents got the message that I was not in the mood to talk about anything with them, and they refrained from invading my room and bombarding me with whatever speech they’d constructed to make me feel better. That morning, I trudged downstairs and prepared myself breakfast like I usually did. I didn’t outwardly suggest in any way, shape, or form that this was anything more than a typical morning before school. My mother, on the other hand, kept glancing at me like I was a dangerously overinflated balloon. She probably expected me to break down in a fit of sorrowful rage and cry in her arms like a regular little boy. If she hadn’t realised by now that I was far from ordinary, she’d be in denial forever.

Sometimes I felt like my mother didn’t approve of my gifts, like she’d rather I played sports or watched television shows typical for a boy my age. It was true, she hadn’t asked for a child who could think circles around her by the age of eight, but as a mother it was her duty to support her children no matter what.

I finished my breakfast in silence and went back upstairs to brush my teeth. Beforehand, I peeked into my parents’ room and snuck inside. Mother was busy packing lunches in the kitchen, so there was little chance she’d come upstairs unless I made some horrid racket. I dragged the desk chair over to the armoire and reached into the drawer where my father kept all the gadgets he never used. I was tall enough that my hand could reach, but I couldn’t see into the drawer, so I scuffled about blindly for the recording device. I pulled out a pocket watch my mother had given him for their anniversary several years ago, binoculars, and a Swiss army knife before finally securing the recording device. In my elation I nearly slipped off the chair, but I managed to catch myself just in time. Sighing in relief, I closed the drawer, returned the chair, and hurried back to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“Connor! Jim! Hurry up, you’ll be late!” my mother called from downstairs. Connor, still dressed in his dinosaur pyjamas, stumbled into the bathroom and proceeded to relieve himself without requesting my departure.

“Connor, gross! Ever heard of privacy?” I growled through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Don’t need privacy,” he replied.

“Maybe I need privacy,” I retorted. “You can’t just come in here and use the bathroom without waiting for me to leave.”

“I had to go bad,” was his excuse.

“Badly,” I corrected. “If you’re going to make lame excuses, at least say them with acceptable grammar.” I spit into the sink as huffily as possible and retreated hastily. Connor managed to find every possible way to annoy me: it was his one and only talent. I grabbed my backpack and carefully placed the recorder in one of its inner pockets before returning downstairs to face my mother. 

“Jim, are you harassing your brother again?” she questioned with that motherly eyebrow raise.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why ever not?” I inquired, feigning innocence. Like all mothers, she could be counted on to ease up on scolding or punishment if I pulled a cute face. Connor was also an expert in this tactic, although he didn’t know it. Being the younger brother, he was naturally cute enough to weasel his way out of anything.

“Let’s get going,” my mother directed, shoving a lunch bag into my hand and ushering me out the door. Connor (at last in normal clothes) met us at the door and allowed my mother to put his backpack on for him and hand him a lunch. We walked out to the car and filed in, Connor requiring assistance to buckle his seatbelt as always.

The ride to school in the mornings was never remarkable, but none I’d ever experienced before had been so rife with broiling tension and unspoken words. My mother’s concern for my state of mind was palpable, and she kept glancing in the review mirror. She never checked it with such frequency, so I could only assume she was waiting for me to show any outward signs of distress. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see the stark outline of the school against the morning haze.

I fled from the car almost before it had completely stopped moving, shouting a rushed goodbye to my mother to appease her. I forgot to say goodbye once, and she literally followed me to my classroom and demanded a hug and a proper farewell. The class hadn’t laughed so hard since Jeremy returned from the loo with toiled paper stuck to his shoe and walked around with it for a solid two hours.

In my haste to escape the clutches of my mother, I didn’t pause to consider the treatment I would receive from my classmates in light of the science fair incident. If I had, maybe I would’ve recognised Mum as the lesser of two evils and begged her to allow me to stay home.


	15. Moment of Doubt

My social standing among the other members of the sixth class was rather complicated. Only Sebastian viewed me as an equal despite the gaping age difference; to everyone else, I was but a baby, of the same rank as the other eight-year-olds in third class where “they were meant to be.” That being said, I was rarely bullied outright for being different. The fact that someone my age was not only enrolled in a much higher level of schooling, but still outshone his classmates, intimidated many of them. A majority of my peers likely saw me as a machine more than a person.

However, my intelligence not only frightened them, Sebastian had told me they’re also somewhat jealous. They don’t appreciate being bested by someone so much younger, and they wish they could be gifted like that; at least, that’s what Sebastian surmised from what little gossip trickled up to him. His friendship with me had basically excommunicated him from the rest of the sixth class hierarchy, but both of us were perfectly content to ignore those morons.

What happened that morning after the science fair, though, was impossible to tune out.

Never before had I considered the speed and power of word-of-mouth, but tales of the skirmish at the science fair had already spread far and wide throughout the school in just over twelve hours. The eyes of every student were fixed on me from the moment I crossed the threshold into the school. Even people who’d never bothered to glance my way in years now stared like I was proof of alien life. I was shocked that it had taken so little time for a rumour to be shared with so many people.

I walked my typical route down the hallways to my classroom, but it seemed more densely packed than usual. It was as if people had gathered to watch my trek to class like a parade. I kept my head down and refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me squirm under their scrutiny. I reached my classroom without incident, but my current least favourite person in the world stood waiting for me. 

“Ben, what do you want?” I questioned. “Did you tell the whole school of your glorious endeavour?”

“Shut up, Jim. You’ve no idea the scope of what I told the whole school.”

“So you admit to being a gossipy attention hog?”

“No, but I admit I successfully planted many rumours, all defacing you. It’s amazing what people will believe when they didn’t bear witness to the truth. Even people that did see it are perfectly willing to swallow an incredibly exaggerated version just because it makes for good conversation.”

“And how exactly did you exaggerate what really happened to make it good conversation?”

“I might’ve told them you destroyed your own project in a tantrum after being disqualified.”

“How could they possibly believe that?” I asked. Deep down, I already knew the answer, but I wanted to see how Ben justified his blatant lies to anyone hesitant to believe him. There was just enough truth in his yarn for it to be conceivable: the fact that my project was destroyed, and my disqualification. He just switched up the order and the perpetrator, making for a glorious tale of a sore loser who threw a fit. Since people already saw me as a bit of a baby, being so much younger, it would be fairly easy to make them believe I’d done something so immature. I would almost say it was a genius idea, if not for the fact Ben came up with it. 

“It doesn’t matter how or why they believe it, all that matters is your humiliation,” Ben said blatantly.

“Do I appear humiliated? I don’t give a darn what any of these numbskulls think of me.”

“Isn’t that great for you? Maybe that mindset will hold up.” Before I could ask what he meant, he sauntered off like the victor of a rap battle. I rolled my eyes; it was just like Ben to leave in the middle of an argument to avoid the possibility of losing.

Class proceeded as normal for the next few hours, but I couldn’t help but notice people glancing at me and turning to snicker to each other. I had the strangest sense they knew something I didn’t, and I absolutely abhorred it. At lunchtime, I sat down with Sebastian as usual, but with a great sense of foreboding. Ben was doing an awful lot of whispering and giggling, and I didn’t like it one bit. All of a sudden, a hideous chorus rose up from Ben’s table and began to spread throughout the room.

“Jim, oh Jim. He’s very dim.  
We’ve all had enough of him.  
Jim, oh Jim filled to the brim  
With stupid rage and childish whim.  
Jim, oh Jim, the odds are slim  
That anyone be friends with him.  
Jim, oh Jim, so plain and prim  
Won’t you listen to this hymn?  
Jim, oh Jim, go for a swim.  
Things are looking rather grim.  
Jim, oh Jim should hit the gym.  
We plan to rip him limb from limb.”

I was horrified. It felt terrible to be subjected to such a mean-spirited taunt. I didn’t understand what I did to deserve such treatment; I’d never even spoken to many of the people chanting, much less given them any reason to tease me. Why wasn’t the administration shutting this down? Bullying was forbidden in school, and this definitely qualified. It was then I realised that they had gathered up the perpetrators and the continuing chorus was only playing inside my own head.

“Jim, oh Jim. He’s very dim.  
We’ve all had enough of him.  
Jim, oh Jim filled to the brim  
With stupid rage and childish whim.  
Jim, oh Jim, the odds are slim  
That anyone be friends with him.  
Jim, oh Jim, so plain and prim  
Won’t you listen to this hymn?  
Jim, oh Jim, go for a swim.  
Things are looking rather grim.  
Jim, oh Jim should hit the gym.  
We plan to rip him limb from limb.”

The lyrics weren’t even clever! Personally, I was surprised Ben had managed to find that many words that rhyme with Jim. The raucous laughter of those remaining in the lunchroom echoed in my ears. I wanted to hide, to run away and never interact with anybody ever again. For the first time in many years, I felt tears bristling at the back of my eyes. Not wanting to subject myself to further embarrassment, I leapt up from my table and sprinted for the bathroom. Sebastian called after me, but I was deaf to his pleas. 

I crawled underneath one of the sinks and curled up against the wall, burying my head in my knees. The smaller I made myself, the more I felt like I could shut out the rest of the world. Since the rest of the world currently thought me an idiot, shutting them out seemed like a very pleasurable option. As much confidence as I had in my own abilities and intellect, the negative consensus of so many of my peers severely undermined my self-esteem. If they all thought that of me, was it true? Even if the song was based on Ben’s false rumour that I had thrown a tantrum after being disqualified, did I really come across as being childish and whimsical? 

A knock on the bathroom door jarred me out of my self-questioning reverie.

“Who is it?” I mumbled, my head still tucked firmly between my knees.

“It’s Sebastian. Can I come in?” 

“No. I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m coming in anyway, and I’m not going to pity you. I’m going to talk some sense into you.”

I listened to the creaking of the door’s hinges and Sebastian’s footsteps as he approached my sink. I could make out his shadow as it was thrown across the floor in front of me, and I lifted my head for an instant to check that it was really him. 

“There’s nothing you can do to alleviate this situation,” I informed him.

“Come on, have a little faith in your best friend.”

“Fine. What speech have you practiced?”

“First, I need to ask why you let that song bother you in the first place. Why’d you run in here?”

“Everyone hates me. They said I’m stupid, childish, and whimsical.”

“Since when do you care what those morons think?”

“I don’t know, since they decided to gang up on me?”

“Let’s put it this way: what’s the square root of negative one?”

“It doesn’t exist, it’s an imaginary number.”

“Right. What if everyone in the school decided that the square root of negative one was zero?”

“Then everyone in the school would be wrong.”

“Why is it wrong if everyone agrees?”

“The square root of negative one being imaginary is a fact, it’s been proven mathematically. And it could never be zero because zero times zero is always zero.”

“Exactly. Now, what if everyone in the school decided that you were stupid and childish? Would that make it true?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“No, it wouldn’t, for the same reasons you just gave me. You are not stupid, you are not childish, and this has been proven on many occasions. Everyone else is just wrong.”  
I slowly raised my head again to look him in the eyes. Those brown eyes that looked at me earnestly, always seeing me for who I really am. I smiled. He always knew how to put things into terms I understood, always managed to get me to see reason when I was being irrational. I couldn’t imagine what I would do without him. “Now get up off your lazy butt and let’s go back to class, the bell just rang.”

~0~

Fortunately, Sebastian and I made it to class just in time. Lateness was practically worthy of capital punishment in this place. Anyone who had joined Ben in his chant was conspicuously absent from the room, probably still with administration being scolded and—hopefully—punished. That left a scant seven people in the class, including me and Sebastian. Regardless of this diminished class size, our teacher went on with the lesson as if everything were normal. I was glad of this; I would hate it if she’d given a speech on bullying or otherwise addressed my public ridicule.

The downside, however, was that I couldn’t sneak out to explain my plan to the janitor. Parent teacher conferences were tomorrow night, and I couldn’t risk missing this opportunity. In a crowded classroom, I could take an abnormal amount of time ‘going to the bathroom’ without being noticed, but not here. But in light of today’s events, maybe I could get away with it. My teacher indubitably expected me to be in a fragile emotional state right now; in fact, I was shocked I hadn’t already been called to the counsellor’s office.

Maybe it would be assumed I was crying in the bathroom, attempting to pull myself together enough to show my face in the classroom again. I glanced at the clock: half two, the janitor would still be cleaning the lunchroom. If I didn’t do it soon, he’d have moved on to the teacher’s lounge, where I couldn’t reach him. I decided to take the risk and go for it.

“Pardon me,” I said, raising my hand. “May I use the bathroom?”

“Of course,” she replied. I got up from my seat and dashed out the door. I needed to make this as quickly as possible to avoid suspicion. I hurried down the halls back to the lunchroom, listening for the telltale sound of the janitor whistling to himself as he wiped down the tables. I entered the room, feeling for the recording device I’d stowed in my back pocket.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Scott,” I greeted amicably. 

“Hello Jim. How are you?” he rasped. The janitor smoked as many cigarettes as he could afford every day, as evidenced by his hoarseness and abhorrent breath. 

“I’m wonderful, thank you. I have a small favour to ask of you.”

“Anything for you, whatcha need?”

“Please don’t inquire as to my motives, for it would take much too long to explain and I’m on borrowed time. But I need to plant a recording device in my teacher’s office to listen on her conference with my parents. The only problem is, I need someone to switch it on and off to catch the conversation.”

“Umm, all right. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“I need you to enter the room under the pretence of cleaning or picking up something you left in there, and switch on the recorder. Then, after my parents’ conference is over, you need to go back in, switch it off, and keep it for me until the next day. Can you do that? There’s a jumbo bottle of Windolene in it for you if you get it done.”

“Yes, I think I can manage that. How do you turn the device on?”

“Simple. Just push this red button,” I demonstrated. “Push the same button to turn it off. The key is not to let my teacher figure out what you’re doing. She’ll freak out if she thinks she’s being spied on or something. I will plant the device, it will be on the corner of her desk behind the picture of her dogs.”

“Got it. Why are you doing this again?”

“No time to explain. I have to get back to class before my teacher starts to worry. I’m supposedly on a bathroom break,” I said. I walked back to class as fast as I could without making too much noise. Phase one of the plan was in place, I was well on track to learning the truth.


	16. Nature of My Game

“Connor, are you dressed? The babysitter will be here any minute!” my mother called frantically from downstairs. No matter how much time she allotted to get herself ready to leave, she always ended up scrambling. My father, on the other hand, could be told he had to gather his valuables and evacuate to a bunker for the nuclear apocalypse, and he’d still manage to get out of the house with everything he needed in less than ten minutes.

“Yes, Mummy!” Connor called as he trotted down the stairs. He claimed to be dressed, but had evidently neglected to put on his trousers.

“Connor, are you forgetting something?” my mother huffed. His wardrobe preferences never ceased to exasperate her.

“Daddy does it,” he argued.

“Only when it’s just the four of us. I don’t want the babysitter to think poorly of you. Could you please just put on your trousers?”

“Fine.”

Meanwhile, I sat on the couch fiddling with my wooden puzzle. I’d already solved it dozens of times, but I couldn’t sit still very long without twiddling my fingers or otherwise occupying myself. The tactile sensation was soothing. As much as I tried to push it from my mind, tonight’s plan was stressing me out. I had total faith in Mr. Scott’s loyalty, but I feared he’d lose track of time and miss my parents’ conference, or he’d be caught and the recording device confiscated. His actions could be seen as criminal if someone severely misinterpreted the purpose of the recording device in a teacher’s office.

“Mum, you’ll be late,” I called mechanically. It didn’t matter where she was going or when it was supposed to begin, she was always in danger of being late.

“I know, Jim, I’m trying. I can’t leave until the sitter gets here, anyway.”

“Who’d you get?” I inquired. She utilised several teenagers as our temporary guardians when she and my father went out, each of which was more desperate and miserable than the last. Connor loved them all because they let him eat sweets and stay up past bedtime—as long as he promised not to tell Mum. He always told Mum the next morning, but she’d never fired any of them for disobedience. Apparently it was typical for a babysitter to see the children as her “real” bosses even if the parents were the ones paying. If I was the boss, I’d tell her that I could take care of myself and they needn’t do anything more than alert me when whatever my mother had left in the oven for us finished cooking. Frankly, that was what I did anyway, but the sitter always forced me into playing some silly little game with Connor.

“Rosie,” my mother answered.

“Is she the one who wears those awful jumpers and smells like cat litter?”

“Jim, I will pretend I didn’t hear such words coming from your mouth. Rosie is a lovely girl whose mother rescues stray cats and finds them new homes. If I hear you were cruel to her, you’ll be punished.”

“Yes, Mum. Next time, can you get someone less boring?”

“I’m not making any promises.” The doorbell rang. “Oh! She’s here. Connor: trousers, now!” I repressed a chuckle as Connor dashed up the stairs and my mother frantically dusted imaginary crumbs off her blouse and forcibly straightened up before opening the door. She ushered Rosie inside, already apologising profusely for her rush. Rosie, as annoyingly polite as always, insisted it was not a problem and she completely understood. 

“We should be out of here in a few minutes, I just need to make sure everything’s in order. Do you need us home by a certain time?” my mother inquired.

“I can stay as long as you need me to, Mrs. Moriarty,” Rosie insisted. “The boys are no trouble at all.”

“Wonderful. We should be back by nine thirty or so. Supper’s in the fridge, it just needs to be heated up. Jim knows how to work everything if you have questions, and I’d like Connor in bed by nine. Jim can stay up until we get home.”

“Okay, sounds good. Anything in particular you want them to do with their free time?”

“No, they can just play. My only request is you limit their television watching to an hour or so. Connor’s been watching a little too much lately, I’m afraid he’s going to fry his brain.”

I thought to myself: Connor’s brain is already so far gone, there’s little more damage for watching telly to do. 

“James! We’re leaving!” my mother called up the stairs. My father was simply waiting for her to get her act together; he’d been ready to go for a half hour. He came down the stairs, greeted Rosie, and followed my mother out the door.

“Goodbye, Jim. Be good for Rosie,” my father warned. He turned to Rosie: “Let us know if they give you a hard time. Cheers.”

With that, they were gone. I glanced at the clock: it had only been an hour since my mother began preparing to leave for this simple excursion. Connor bumbled down the stairs and gave Rosie a massive hug. He’d developed a crush on every female babysitter we’d ever had since he was three, which I found disgusting.

“Hi Connor!” Rosie greeted enthusiastically. She took on an entirely different persona when talking to Connor than when talking to my parents. She went from trustworthy employee to fun-loving, excitable friend in an instant. “Let’s play a game!” Connor exclaimed excitedly, grabbing Rosie’s hand and yanking her along with him. She willingly followed him to the closet where we kept the games and allowed him to choose one. Since he couldn’t reach beyond the second shelf, she pulled it out for him. 

I groaned when I recognised the picture on the box as that of Snakes and Ladders: Connor’s absolute favourite game, and my worst nightmare. It was the epitome of purposelessness. My mother had forced me to play it with Connor once before, and I’d been so miserable she’d actually permitted me to stop and had finished the game with Connor in my stead. There was no strategy involved whatsoever; the winner was determined by sheer luck! How did winning at that game prove anything? I presume this was the very reason Connor loved it—it was one of few games he could actually win at. I much preferred Monopoly, something that required some brainpower. However, my mother had forbidden me to challenge Connor to Monopoly because he had no idea how to play, and I always ended up angry with him.

“He’s younger than you are, he doesn’t understand those games,” was always her excuse.

“Yeah, and what’s yours?” I would think to myself. My mother hadn’t beaten me at Monopoly since I was still in nappies. My father could still eke out a victory, but he rarely had time to play with me. Another reason I loved Monopoly was the premise of the game itself. I loved claiming property and gathering profit from the other players. Placing a house or hotel on the board was asserting dominance over that section. Maybe I’d challenge Rosie to Monopoly after Connor went to bed—even though we wouldn’t finish, it’d be nice to observe the strategy of another person. I’d only ever played with Sebastian, Connor, and my parents before. Increasing the size of my mental database was always beneficial to my performance.

“Jim, would you like to play with us?” Rosie inquired, setting up the game with Connor.

“No thank you,” I immediately replied. “I’m not a fan of Snakes and Ladders.”

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind,” she chirped.

Ugh. Her happy-go-lucky nature and endless reserve of politeness irritated the hell out of me. How did she manage to stoop to Connor’s level and pretend to enjoy that stupid game? She was in secondary school, so she should find it as boring and repetitive as I did. Or was she really so dim she actually enjoyed Snakes and Ladders? I wouldn’t put it past her.

With nothing better to do, I decided to grab one of my father’s books off of his shelf and read that. His were always far more interesting than anything I’d ever received for my birthday or Christmas; I don’t know why, but people assumed I read these juvenile little chapter books with barely a hundred pages. One of the only perks of being stuck with a babysitter is that they were unaware of the fine rules and details of our lives. My father never allowed me to borrow from his bookshelf, but if he wasn’t here to punish me, what was the harm in sneaking some literary entertainment? The book I selected was entitled Brain by Robin Cook. It was about several young women who experienced strange neurological symptoms and died, only to have their brains mysteriously removed. At least that’s what I could glean from the summary on the back. My mother would have my head if she found me reading this type of thing, as she was convinced exposure to adult themes wasn’t good for my upbringing.

I made sure the bookshelf didn’t look conspicuously empty in the spot from where I’d taken the book. My father wouldn’t notice a thing like that, but I couldn’t risk him catching me borrowing from him without permission. I treaded back downstairs and curled up on the couch. Rosie and Connor had set up their game on the floor in front of me, and I tried not to let Connor’s poor sportsmanship distract me from my reading. Anytime he landed on a snake he’d insist it was a faulty spin and request a do-over.

Rosie was doing a surprisingly decent job of preventing him from cheating. She wouldn’t permit him to spin again unless it was obvious he hadn’t flicked the spinner properly. Regardless, she ended up beating him. Not that a victory at Snakes and Ladders really meant anything, but this upset Connor deeply. He was about two seconds away from tears when Rosie suggested they save the game for later and go have dinner. If there was one thing that piqued Connor’s interest: it was food. The kid was six years old yet always ate like he hadn’t seen food in days.

“Jim, would you join us for dinner please?” Rosie asked. Reluctantly, I marked my page and hopped up to join them in the kitchen. She heated up our dinners and we all sat down at the table. Usually, my parents took this time to inquire about our days at school and discuss grown-up things with each other, but Rosie wasn’t as much of a conversationalist. I don’t think our house has ever been so silent for such a period of time unless all of its occupants were fast asleep. She attempted to spark a discussion of something, but Connor was so focused on his meal he never gave more than a one-word answer, and I just stared at her blankly whenever she asked me something, pretending I didn’t speak English. It was rather fun to watch her squirm to alleviate the awkwardness.

After dinner, Connor and I placed out dishes in the sink and returned to our activities. Rosie insisted on washing all the plates, even when I told her my mother usually left them there until the next morning. Something about job security and making a good impression. I returned to my book, already enjoying its detailed descriptions of different medical procedures. Some of the content was of a nature that would get me in serious trouble with any adult who caught me reading it, but I felt it was better for me as a person to be exposed to crude things at a young age so they didn’t appal me later in life.

“Jim, what are you reading?” Rosie asked once she’d finished with the dishes and returned to play with Connor.

“It’s called Brain,” I told her curtly. I didn’t usually tolerate conversation while I was reading, but I didn’t want her to freak out when I didn’t answer her and go into emergency babysitter mode. My mother often remarked that I was nearly catatonic when I was focused on a particular task like reading or maths.

“Is it for school?”

“No.”

“For fun, then?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

Fortunately, she took the hint and returned her attention to Connor and his insistence to play Connect Four now. For the next hour, Rosie and Connor played a slew of different board games while I made excellent progress in my book. At eight forty five, she took Connor upstairs (kicking and screaming) to help him get ready for bed. I sighed with relief as the noise of his tantrum drifted away and finally out of earshot. My thoughts drifted to the recording device, and I sincerely hoped that the janitor had succeeded in his task. Hopefully, the recording would yield useful information on my teachers’ opinions of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't noticed, I've had a little fun inserting names of characters from the present. More Easter Eggs like this to come, some more cleverly hidden than others. If you can spot the tricky ones, you deserve many congratulations and 'fandom points.' Thanks for reading!


	17. Tell Me

My parents returned from the conference uneventfully. Evidently, nothing had gone horribly amiss with the recording device. Either the janitor had successfully executed the plan without being detected, or he’d abandoned it entirely. Hopefully, it was the former. They paid Rosie, listened to her report of our behaviour, and sent me to bed. 

The next morning, I could barely contain my anticipation as I prepared for school. I needed to meet with the janitor and find out how last night had gone. The contents of that recording device contained the most precious secrets of the collusion between my teacher and parents. My mother noticed my haste and warned me not to inhale my cereal too quickly or I’d choke. The ride to school dragged for ages; things always took longer when you were waiting for something important or exciting. I wished my whole life could be a long string of engaging activities, so there wouldn’t be any abysmal waiting in between the stuff that actually meant something.

We arrived with just enough time for me to stop by the classroom at the end of the corridor that the janitor always cleaned first thing in the morning. The teacher who used that classroom didn’t come to school until later in the day, so he took advantage of its vacancy. I made my way down the hall, wringing my hands with nervousness. What would I do if he told me he’d failed? Could I deny him the cleaning supplies I’d promised him? I’m sure he tried his best, even if it wasn’t good enough, I couldn’t go back on my word like that. Or could I? I’d told him that I’d give it to him if he got it done. So if he hadn’t done it, he wasn’t entitled to his prize. I decided firmly that I’d only get it for him if he’d succeeded.

“Mr. Scott?” I asked tentatively, peering into the room. I heard a vacuum cleaner running, so I assumed he must be inside. He hadn’t heard me over the noise, so I entered the room and got his attention by standing in his field of vision.

“Jim! Good morning,” he greeted.

“How did last night go? Did you get the recording?”

“Yes, I believe I did. I pushed the button just like you said, and a little red light came on. I got some strange looks from your teacher when I returned pretending I’d left something, but I managed to grab it off her desk without her seeing what it was.”

“Fantastic! Can I have the recorder?”

“Yep, here it is.” He handed me the device with the information I’d coveted for so long. I caressed it in almost Gollum-like obsession. “When can you get that Windolene you promised?”

“Oh, you’ll get it soon enough,” I said dismissively. My cleaning supply chain was incredibly reliable, so it shocked me that the administration couldn’t find a way to stock him with the materials he wanted. It was a simple enough request, but I guess that accurately summarized the faculty of my school: barely competent.

I gingerly tucked the recorder into a safe pocket in my backpack and made my way to class. I glanced at the nearest clock and saw that I still had five minutes before the bell that would deem me late rang. Typically I showed up to class early because I didn’t like entering the room when it was full of other children and their petty conversations, but today would have to be an exception. I entered the classroom and unpacked my stuff as usual, but throughout the day my brain returned to the recording device in my backpack and the treasure it contained.

~0~

The end of the school day wouldn’t come soon enough. All the menial work my teachers assigned that always took me barely half as long as the rest of the class seemed even easier and more pointless than usual. Even maths lacked their usual allure. At last, the dismissal bell rang and I sincerely hoped my mother wouldn’t be delayed in picking us up so I could go home, shut myself in my bedroom, and listen to that tape as soon as possible. 

I threw my stuff in my backpack and practically sprinted out the door. All my classmates were much taller than I was, being three years older than me, but my small stature allowed me to duck around the crowds and force my way to the front of the pack leaving the school. I walked just on the threshold of a jogging pace and burst through the doors, already scanning the car park for my mother’s car. Luckily, I spotted it near its usual spot and headed towards it. My mother was understandably surprised to see me out of school so soon that she asked if out teacher had let us out early for good behaviour.

“School’s not a prison,” I explained. “We don’t get let out for good behaviour. I just happened to walk out here faster than usual.” I sat down and stared out the window, waiting for Connor’s class escort. First class was one of the first groups to be dismissed, so I spotted him about two minutes later. He came into the car and I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from begging my mother to hurry up and buckle him so we could go home. I couldn’t reveal the reason for my excitement without exposing my eavesdropping.

When we arrived at home, I dashed up to my room under the pretence of having an incredible homework load. My mother sighed and shook her head at my hurry, knowing I never took longer than a half hour to complete my assignments. I placed the recording device on my bed in front of me and pressed play, nearly drowning in anticipation. At first, there was just background noise as someone shuffled papers around on the desk, but the first snatches of conversation began a few moments afterwards. The quality of the sound wasn’t fantastic, but I could make out enough syllables to decipher the words being said. It listened intently, completely enthralled with the conversation.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty,” my teacher said.

“Good evening Mrs. Fletcher,” came the familiar voice of my mother.

“Please, sit down.” The command was followed by the muffled scooting of a chair across the floor.

“How are you?” my mother asked, ever polite.

“I’m fine, thank you. I apologize for cutting the small talk short, but I’m on a rather tight schedule and would prefer if we got right to the point.”

“Of course, I totally understand.”

“Jim is a very bright young boy.”

“Yes, he’s quite exceptional. We can barely keep his mind occupied at home,” my father pointed out.

“Yes. Even having skipped several years of education, he’s far more advanced than many of my older students. If it weren’t for concerns regarding his physical maturity, I’d advance him another grade or two without hesitation.”

“We’ve decided as a family that it’s best for Jim if he doesn’t skip around anymore. Even if this level is too easy for him, uprooting him from his friends doesn’t seem very healthy. And an even larger age gap would make him extremely isolated,” my mother explained. She’d told me this before when I complained that my work was too easy, and I understood her point. I wouldn’t want to leave Sebastian behind.

“Yes, I would agree wholeheartedly with that assessment. In fact, that was the very topic I was hoping to discuss with you tonight, since I doubt you have any concerns about his academic performance.”

“Correct.”

“I’ve been teaching Jim for nearly a year now, and he is undoubtedly the brightest student I’ve ever had in a scholastic respect. In other areas, he appears somewhat...how do I put this? Lacking.”

“What do you mean, lacking?” my mother questioned.

“He seems to struggle with interactions among his peers. He has failed to have a meaningful relationship with anyone beyond the boy Sebastian Moran, and this concerns me. A boy his age should have more than one friend.”

“Why does his having only a best friend concern you?” my father asked. “Doesn’t that just mean he’s loyal?"

“Well, it would be. Except it goes beyond not being friends with any other students. He actively shuns them.”

“He’s always been shy, ever since he was a little boy. He’s never interacted with other kids his age very much,” my mother said.

“I don’t think this is shyness. He has no reserves about talking to any adult, whether familiar or new. And he’ll speak to the other children, but only when spoken to. He also appears to have trouble understanding and acknowledging other people’s feelings. He doesn’t act any differently whether a person is sad, happy, or angry.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked my father.

“These traits can be considered sociopathic tendencies. I would suggest taking Jim in for further testing because I fear there may be something wrong with the way his brain interprets social exchange.”

“Sociopathic tendencies?” my mother gasped. “You’re saying that Jim, our little Jim, is a psychopath?”

“No, Mrs. Moriarty, not at all. I’m simply suggesting you figure out if there is a clinical diagnosis, or if his peculiarities are simply part of his personality. So far, he hasn’t caused any significant problems, his worst offence being the recent standoff at the science fair. Please don’t take this the wrong way—Jim is a wonderful little boy—but I’m concerned about his well-being in a society that requires interaction and communication with other people.”

“Thank you for sharing your concerns, we’ll talk to Jim and get his perspective on the issue. Good night to you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

More scuffling of chairs, fading footsteps, the sounds of Mrs. Scott adjusting her desk’s contents yet again before heavy footsteps approached and the recording abruptly shut off. I stared in awe at the little device that had just borne such a shock unto my soul. My own teacher thought me a psychopath. I couldn’t believe she would say such a thing to my parents. 

But through the rage at such a betrayal, I started to see reason. The things Mrs. Fletcher had said were true; I wasn’t friends with anybody other than Sebastian. And sometimes I did have trouble reading what others were feeling. I understood the basic concept of smiling versus frowning, but the nuances of nonverbal communication remained somewhat of a mystery to me. I suddenly began to freak out, my breathing and heart rate speeding up, and wondered what would happen if my mother took me to some doctor who officially deemed me a psychopath. Would one of those aides for special needs kids be forced to tail me and ensure I stayed out of trouble at school? Would I be taken away to some facility and locked up for life? Would Sebastian or my parents be allowed to visit? This conversation had taken place yesterday; were my parents already planning to have me evaluated? If so, when would they discuss this situation with me? My mother said she’d talk to me on the recording, but had she decided against it? Would I have any say in what happened to me? 

All these questions swirled through my head like a raging whirlpool of stress and uncertainty. I almost regretted placing that recording device. I’d predicted my teachers would only discuss my brilliance, and possibly mention the incident at the science fair, but never in the context that I was some sort of psychopathic savant. I would much rather not know this information and be surprised if and when my mother brought it up to me than have it constantly plaguing my subconscious. Well... too late now.


	18. Troubadours

The next morning, I vigilantly observed my mother for any sign she would sit me down for a discussion of the conference. She always got a certain look about her when there was something important on her mind, and an even more distinctive look when she was bracing herself for a conversation with me. However, that morning, she provided absolutely no indication that there was to be a discussion of Mrs. Fletcher’s comments at the conference. I wondered if she’d ever tell me my teacher thought me a psychopath, or if she’d keep it a secret and just hope I didn’t turn out a serial killer.

One thing I did notice was that she kept glancing at me as if she was afraid I’d suddenly disappear. She almost cut her finger off while chopping carrots just to steal a glimpse of me putting my cereal bowl in the sink. I wondered if she was scanning me for signs of being a sociopath, as if she’d be able to tell from the way I clean up my dishes. I considered asking directly why she kept looking at me funny, but I knew I wouldn’t get an honest answer. I could have asked her if she thought I was a sociopath, but then I would have to explain how I knew what she had discussed with Mrs. Fletcher, and that would get me in serious trouble. The only way I’d get a straight answer about my psychopathic tendencies was to ask someone I trusted, and that was a very short list.

~0~

“Sebastian, do you think I’m a psychopath?” I whispered while we waited for class to start. Like me, he preferred to get to school early.

“What kind of a question is that?” he asked.

“A yes or no question.”

“I know that, but why would you ask such a thing?”

“Just answer the question. Do you think I’m a psychopath?”

“Ummm... no.”

“You hesitated.”

“I don’t really know what a psychopath is, so I don’t think I’m adequately equipped to answer.”

“Stop evading, you’re no good at subtlety. I know what you’re trying to do. You know full well what a psychopath is, you just don’t want to answer me honestly.”

“Well, I do know psychopaths tend to be too smart for their own good. They get bored and resort to terrible things to entertain their minds.”

“That’s true.”

“You are smarter than any other eight-year-old I’ve ever met, like scary smart.”

“That comparison implies you do consider me a psychopath. Why did you say no?”

“Because you haven’t resorted to terrible things to entertain your mind.”

“Okay, that’s a good explanation. But you think I could?”

“Well, you did seem ready to murder Ben at the science fair.”

“He destroyed our project. That didn’t upset you?”

“It did upset me, but I wasn’t about to kill someone over it.”

“I see your point. So you don’t think I’m a psychopath, but you think I could easily become one.”

“Yes.”

“What would happen if I did become one?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, if I did something really bad, what would you do?”

“Jim, what did you do?” he questioned, his tone growing strained.

“Nothing, nothing! I haven’t done anything, this is purely hypothetical.”

“Jim, you’re not planning on committing a crime, are you?”

“Of course not, I have no reason to do so. Crime is for people who have nowhere else to turn. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me! Graduating primary school, going to secondary school, absolutely dominating at secondary school, applying to university, being begged by every university in the UK to attend there, there’s just no time for crime.”

“You sound really dorky when you accidentally rhyme.”

“That’s not important! The point is, I’m not about to stoop to becoming a common miscreant any time soon. I just wanted to know if you’d stand by me even if circumstances were to drive me off the edge.”

“I would stand by you no matter what.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that,” I admitted. “See that? Psychopaths can’t express gratitude like that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Our conversation was promptly ended when Mrs. Fletcher requested our attention to begin class. As much as I tried to pay attention to whatever she was attempting to teach these idiots, my thoughts kept wandering to her words at the conference. I wondered how often her focus fell onto me during the school day, since she evidently considered me atypical and potentially dangerous. 

Suddenly, an urge rose up within me to prove her wrong at all costs. If there was one thing I absolutely despised, it was being underestimated. This wasn’t technically underestimation, but I still took is as a personal offence that she considered me less than perfect. I decided right then and there that I would change her opinion of me before the school year was out. I had just over two weeks to become the most social, outgoing, non-sociopathic person I could be. Even if it constituted fraternizing with morons, it would be well worth it. 

~0~

I had to have a game plan for this reinvention of myself, as with all things of any importance, so I spent hours in my room after finishing my homework just thinking of things that social people did. I’d certainly have to talk to people other than Sebastian, no matter how frivolous their preferred topics of conversation. I studied up on football and popular television programs, and I was ready to go. Never had I faced such a daunting task as making friends. My best hope was to achieve this through Sebastian; since he’d had other friends previously, he would have some knowledge on how to make them.

“Sebastian, tell me all you know about making friends,” I instructed upon seeing him at the beginning of school the next day.

“Is this about the whole psychopath thing? I love hanging out with you, and I’m certainly not going to abandon you,” he replied.

“No, it’s not about that. I just thought I’d be nice if we got to know some more of our classmates, expanded our social circle a little bit,” I lied.

“Jim, every time I’ve ever suggested even speaking to another person, you’ve all but forbidden me from doing it. Why’d you all of a sudden change your mind?”

“I saw this documentary with my father last night about the benefits of a large circle of friends.”

“Bollocks! You just want to prove to whomever it is that you’re not a psychopath.”

“So you admit that I am a psychopath.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly the message your syntax conveyed.”

“Stop. You know I hate it when you use words I don’t understand.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. You caught me. I would like to show Mrs. Fletcher and my parents that I’m not a psychopath... because I’m not. I happen to enjoy having just a best friend whom I trust wholeheartedly. But if it takes branching out to convince them, then branching out is what I’ll have to do.”

“What do you want my help with?”

“You used to have many friends, before I came along and rescued you. What should I do to get people to want to be my friend? I’ve already researched things that are common mutual interests.”

“Really? Who won the World Cup in 1982?”

“Italy defeated Germany 3-1.”

“That’s ridiculous. How far back did you go?”

“The beginning.”

“No way. How long did that take?”

“Maybe an hour.”

“You’re insane. 1970?”

“Brazil beat Italy 4-1.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I easily could be. I could be making this up on the spot, and you wouldn’t be able to verify that. Unless you also happen to have memorised the history of the World Cup.”

“No, Jim. Of course I haven’t memorised the history of the World Cup. I’m pretty sure you’re the only person in the world except maybe the president of FIFA who’s memorised the history of the World Cup. That knowledge is almost as useless as knowing 243 different types of tobacco ash.”

“Who knows that?”

“Nobody. It was just a comparison for how useless the history of the World Cup is.”

“Why’d you say 243? That’s a really random number.”

“I don’t know; it was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Statistically, the first number to pop into a person’s head usually has some sort of significance.”

“Stop over-thinking everything. Only you would question the significance of the first number to pop into my head. What’s the first number that pops into your head if you had to pick a random one?”

“468.”

“Why?”

“Let me know if you figure it out.”

“Don’t do that to me, you know I hate it when you play games like that.”

“I know you hate it, that’s why I continue to do it.”

“This is why you don’t have any other friends.”

I stuck my tongue out at him in retort, and he punched me in the arm. We almost broke into a fully-fledged wrestling match when we were snapped back to reality by Mrs. Fletcher beginning the class. We chuckled and pulled out our notebooks, still sneaking passing blows at each other under the desk. This continued for a good majority of the lesson, we were just sneaky enough that she couldn’t figure out who was causing the disturbance, just that loud scuffling noises intermittently emanated from our side of the room.

It was times like these I wondered why anyone would need more than a best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several thousand fandom points to whoever can tell me the significance of Jim's number 468. And I'm sure you all recognised the tobacco ash bit... I had to throw that in there somewhere.


	19. If You Meet Me

In constructing a list of potential friend candidates, we immediately eliminated all of Sebastian’s old friends—even though he still had no idea I destroyed his social life at age four. We couldn’t go for girls because I feared Mrs. Fletcher would take that the wrong way and assume I was acting on primal sex urges or something nutso like that. That left only six options: Jacob, Owen, Martin, Stephen, Andrew, and Frederick. Jacob and Owen had been exposed to that rumour about Sebastian I’d spread all those years ago to get rid of Ben, so I decided to eliminate them without telling Sebastian that was the real reason. I told him they were simply too stupid for me to handle.

We spent a day closely observing the remaining candidates. I watched Martin and Stephen while Sebastian watched Andrew and Frederick. We took careful notice of their interests, habits, and routines. Martin paid very close attention to Mrs. Fletcher’s lessons all the time; it was clear to me he wasn’t particularly smart but was trying exceptionally hard to do well in school. That was admirable. Stephen was the total opposite, always goofing off and laughing with his other friends during class. I wasn’t sure I could handle interacting with such a waste of a desk, so I put him at the bottom of my list. At recess, Sebastian reported to me his observations of Andrew and Frederick. They were already best friends with each other and spent every possible second discussing the games that would play that evening with their neighbourhood friends. I told him of my findings, and he agreed that Martin was a decent target to start with. Sebastian had been in his class a few years ago and noticed that he was painfully shy and hardly had any friends.

To many it would seem a noble deed to befriend the reserved, lonely boy in the proverbial corner, and I hoped Mrs. Fletcher was among that many. My worst fear was that she’d see through my act and figure out that this was all a show to prove to her I wasn’t a psychopath. She knew I was smart, but it should be too unbelievable that an eight-year-old would devise a scheme like this for her to assume my change in behaviour was a part of some master plan. That’s exactly what it was, but I wanted her to think she’d just assessed me wrong throughout the school year.

We decided the best time to approach Martin was during recess, since he usually sat on a swing by himself. It was uncannily stereotypical; he just stared at the ground and swayed back and forth like the outcast character always does in the movies. We rehearsed what we would say to him over and over again. Coming across as threatening and scaring him off would ruin our plan. I really didn’t like our odds of winning over any of the other people on our primary list. The key to making a friend was being relatable and desirable. I already had desirability galore; he clearly wanted to succeed at his schoolwork, and everyone knew I was the smartest kid in the grade. I’d offer him my tutoring services, which he would undoubtedly accept. Sebastian would provide the relatable aspect since he was much better than I at empathy and that sort of thing.

At recess, we ran our shtick one final time before approaching the swing set. Martin sat there alone, as always, but other kids had taken up the remaining swings. It took little more than a glance from me to convince them to scurry. I sat down on the swing adjacent to Martin’s and kicked my feet through the mulch a bit. Sebastian took the swing on my opposite side, incredibly attentive for his cue.

“Hi Martin,” I greeted. We’d counted on him not being so shy that he’d immediately flee upon being addressed in a social context.

“Hello,” he replied quickly, barely lifting his gaze from his trainers. I wondered what had happened to this poor kid to make him so introverted.

“I noticed you sitting here by yourself and thought you’d appreciate some company.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he mumbled.

“Are you sure? You look sad. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No.”

“Really? Not a single thing? Do you like candy? I could bring you some to help cheer you up.”

“No thanks. Sugar upsets my stomach.”

“That sucks. If you don’t eat much sugar, do you have a favourite food?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“That’s cool, I love spaghetti too. My mother once made meatballs with chopped up spaghetti baked inside them, it was really good.”

“Neat.”

“I don’t mean to be rude or intrusive, but doesn’t it get boring just sitting on the swings every day?”

“Maybe a little bit.”

Sebastian chose that moment to add his insight into the conversation: “Would you like me to push you? Swinging high is always more fun.”

“No thanks, you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s no big deal, I want to.” And without further ado, he hopped up and gave Martin’s swing a little boost. He wasn’t even going marginally high, but Martin seemed to think he’d just flown to the moon. “Higher?” Sebastian questioned.

“Sure!” Martin exclaimed. I’d never seen him like this; an outer shell seemed to have cracked and fallen off. Sebastian pushed him higher and higher until he was almost parallel with the top bar of the swing set. The only person I’d ever seen get so excited about swinging was Connor, but he honestly believed that he could go all the way around if he tried hard enough. It was a tad depressing: the only way this reaction would come out of an eleven-year-old was if he’d never truly experienced a swing before. If his mother and father had never even pushed him on a swing, what did they do with him?

“That was fun!” Martin huffed, out of breath with excitement. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Sebastian said. “Would you like to go again?”

“Maybe tomorrow, I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“Okay,” Sebastian chuckled.

“Hey Martin, would you like to eat lunch with us today?” I offered, carefully placing the bait. If he said yes, we were in the go. If not, we’d have to try harder to get him to accept us.

“Sure.” I inwardly sighed with relief: phase one was a success. Once Mrs. Fletcher saw our blossoming friendship, she’d have to rethink her conclusion about me. We spent the rest of recess taking turns pushing each other on the swings. Martin dared Sebastian to try to get me to do a full three-sixty (since I was the smallest, he probably figured I had the best chance of making it over). Sebastian gave it a valiant effort, but I knew it would never work unless the swing had fixed chains. However, I chose to keep silent about this detail so as not to discourage Martin’s enthusiasm. Afterwards, we had a jumping contest to see who could so the farthest. I lost by a long shot, obviously, even though I had the best grasp of the physics and optimal release time. Six inches of height is evidently worth far more than knowledge of the involved science.

When recess ended, we walked to lunch together and sat down at Sebastian’s and my usual table. I asked, “Martin, where did you sit at lunch yesterday? I don’t remember seeing you in the lunch room anywhere.”

“I ate with Mrs. Fletcher. She likes company during her lunch break.”

“Will she be missing you now?”

“No, she has a meeting today.”

“Well, you’re welcome to eat with us any day. I hope we’re at least slightly more entertaining than a teacher.”

“Don’t worry, you are. This is the most fun I’ve had at school in years.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Too bad it’s almost the end of the school year; I’d like to spend more time with you to get to know you.”

“Maybe we could hang out over the summer. I think I’m going on holiday for a week or two, but I’ll definitely have free days.”

I’d never considered this aspect of friendship. I’d only planned to befriend Martin for the remainder of the school year to prove Mrs. Fletcher wrong. Next year we started secondary school, which was much bigger and more crowded. I’d intended to strategically avoid him in the hallways until he forgot about me. If he pushed for interaction over the summer, would I be sucked into a much more extended friendship? I wasn’t sure I’d have it in me to tell him our friendship was nothing more than a ploy to demonstrate my sociability. As much as I didn’t want to be friends with Martin forever, I didn’t want to devastate him like that. If one of his first experiences with friends ended like that, it could mess up his social life forever, and he didn’t deserve that. I’d have to contrive some complicated scheme to get him to abandon me, which didn’t seem possible given how attached he already seemed.

“I’m not sure what my family is doing over the summer,” I said. “But I’d definitely consider spending time with you guys.” It was a lie, but I couldn’t think of a subtle way out.

“Sorry, my parents and I are taking an extended holiday to the United States. We’ll be gone practically all summer. We’re going to see New York City, Washington DC, Disney World, Saint Louis, Mount Rushmore, Hollywood, and a bunch of other places my parents think are important for my understanding of the world or something,” Sebastian said. Oh great. If Sebastian wasn’t around to keep me in check, I didn’t think I could handle being with Martin for any extended period of time. I was just desirability, Sebastian was all the relatability. Martin and I would have nothing to talk about, and I hoped for his sake that the novelty of swings would have worn off by then.

“That sounds like fun,” Martin said excitedly. “I went to the US a few years ago with my family, it was great. Their accents are so funny.” Personally, I’d never been to the US. My parents didn’t think Connor could handle the long flight, so we always kept our holidays close to home. Last summer we went to France to see the Eiffel Tower. Connor had asked if he could climb it. Hopefully this year, we’d be going somewhere without tempting jungle gym equipment.

~0~

That night at dinner, my mother and father announced that they had exciting news. They’d finally made arrangements for our summer holiday. They explained that they’d been debating where to go for several months now, and had finally reached a decision. They’d both already been there several times, but neither Connor nor I had seen it yet.

“Are you going to tell us where we’re going, or are you just going to beat around the bush for another hour?” I questioned, quickly growing impatient with their rambling.

“Jim, I don’t appreciate that rude tone,” my mother chastised. 

“I’m sorry, I just would like to know where we’re going.”

“We’re going to London. It’s the capital of the United Kingdom, and your father and I think it’s important you see all the history and important landmarks there.”

“Yay!” Connor gurgled, his mouth still full of food. As much as my mother scolded him for talking with his mouth full, he was always so impatient so say what was on his mind that swallowing was pushed to the back burner.

“We’ll be gone for two weeks in July,” my father explained. “I already took the time off work, so don’t go making any plans that contradict.” He liked to pretend sometimes that we were miniature adults who actually had lives that weren’t dictated by him and my mother. I had grown tired of this game years ago, but it never ceased to reduce Connor to a giggling, spitting mess.

“Don’t worry, my schedule is clear,” I said curtly to another explosion of laughter from Connor. My mother liked it when I participated in the charade because it made Connor so happy. It made me look like a much more caring big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had to. There's a Ben in this story, so I had to include a Martin. It's only fair.


	20. I Stuck Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but what is probably my favorite chapter of the entire story is coming up really soon, so just bear with me.

The next day at school, Martin immediately gravitated towards me and Sebastian, so we didn’t even get to discuss our long term plans for the friendship we’d just built. He was so enthusiastic, that sending him away would be like kicking a puppy out of the room for attempting to play with a shoe; I just couldn’t bring myself to let the innocent boy down. I told him all about my family’s summer arrangements, only omitting the part about how long we’d be gone. I didn’t want him to get his hopes up that we’d spend time together over the summer. On a much brighter note, I noticed Mrs. Fletcher paying us quite a bit of attention. I silently praised myself for coming up with such a genius plan that was already showing results in less than twenty four hours.

However, throughout that day I began to see the downside to befriending someone without any other friends: he never left us alone. He inserted himself into every one of our conversations and followed us around like a stray hoping for scraps. I was just thankful we didn’t do any partner activities that day, because he would have been crushed if Sebastian and I chose each other over him—which we undoubtedly would have. We’d obviously gained his trust, because he acted like a completely different person than either Sebastian or I had ever seen. I’m sure it was great for the kid to finally come out of his shell, but I didn’t appreciate him dumping the contents all over me.

In the rare moments we found ourselves alone during the final two weeks of the school year, Sebastian encouraged me to keep up the act. He wasn’t struggling to continue to be friendly with Martin like I was (he generally accepted people more readily than I), but he observed all the times I nearly cracked and strategically prevented them by changing the subject. Mrs. Fletcher couldn’t see that it was all just a ploy; she had to believe our friendship was genuine or she’d see me as a psychopath forever. We were leaving the school after this year; I would have no more opportunities to change her mind. Whatever she thought of me on that fateful last day of school would stick for all eternity.

Somehow, we made it through. The last day of primary school finally arrived, and the spirit of summer was infectious. I’d never loved summer vacation much—I got bored easily and would much rather continue learning throughout the year—but this time I was counting down the seconds until I could kiss Martin goodbye forever. He still hadn’t figured out that I was only going to be out of town for two weeks of the summer, and I hoped we wouldn’t bump into each other at the grocer’s or some other benign place, therefore initiating a rekindling of our relationship that I wanted to avoid at all costs. 

If all went smoothly over the summer, I was home free. Martin was districted to attend a different secondary school than Sebastian and I! When he told me the ‘bad news,’ I couldn’t believe my luck. I wouldn’t have to dive into random classrooms or use passersby as human shields to prevent further interaction between us. Going to another school, Martin would make all new friends and hopefully forget all about me and Sebastian. The only possibility that could ruin my plan was if Martin somehow got our phone number. Fortunately, he’d yet to ask me directly for it, and he was running out of time to do so. I’d invented several excuses to use if he did ask because there was no way I was providing him with a method of contacting me. If he was diligent enough, he could somehow get it from someone else who knew me, but I was relying on the fact that he wasn’t intelligent or dedicated enough to go that far.

“I just have to make it through the next hour,” I continuously told myself as the hands of the clock crawled around in their never-ending circle. I was now just like every other kid in school: counting down the seconds until dismissal. I abhorred what this whole ‘making new friends’ escapade had turned me into. Since it was the last day of school, we weren’t learning anything anyways. The only reason we even went to school during the last week is to appease the government and convince them we actually got education for the number of days they wanted. Another reason I was anxious to start secondary school: they took finals during the last week.

The last day of school was mostly a celebration of how far we’d come, since this was our last year of primary school. We literally did nothing in class, just ‘let loose,’ as Mrs. Fletcher instructed. Many children took this as an invitation to break all the rules they’d been forced to follow for eight years, running in the classroom, throwing paper aeroplanes, and otherwise being utterly obnoxious. Sebastian, Martin, and I just sat at our desk like proper students and chatted. I was grateful when Mrs. Fletcher finally called us back to attention during the last half hour for her goodbye speech. I didn’t listen that closely, but I got the gist that she was proud of us for all we’d accomplished this year and wished us the best of luck in secondary school and a great summer.

At last, the bell rang. I was free! Everyone rushed to pack up and paraded out of the classroom like rats from a sinking ship. I was just about to cross the threshold into the hallway when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Great, what now? I was so close.

“Jim, can I speak to you for a moment?” Mrs. Fletcher asked. “I know you’re excited to start your summer, but I just have a quick comment.” I reluctantly turned around and gestured for her to continue. At this point, the classroom was completely devoid of other children. “I’ve recently noticed how much you’ve come out of your shell, and I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. I know you’ll be incredibly successful next year. Have a great summer.”

It took great willpower not to let my jaw drop open. Instead, I briefly nodded, thanked her, and wished her a pleasant holiday as well. The second I turned around and left my face broke into a massive grin. It had worked! A last impression was just as important as a first impression, and I’d managed to manipulate hers to my will. I raced towards Sebastian, who’d loyally waited for me at the end of the corridor. I double-checked that Martin had evacuated the school like the rest of our classmates instead of hanging back with Sebastian, then excitedly relayed Mrs. Fletcher’s comment to me.

“It worked, Sebastian! We did it!” I exclaimed.

“That’s fantastic!”

“Now I’ll really enjoy my summer.”

“Yep. It’s too bad I’ll be in the US the whole time, I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too. I’m not sure I can handle a whole summer shut up with Connor.”

“You’re not just sitting home all summer, right? Did your parents put you guys in some camps?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure I’m going to a few science camps or something like that. The only problem is they hold fast to their age requirements, so I’m going to be stuck with a bunch of eight-year-olds.”

“That sucks. Maybe you could pretend to go under cover as a regular little boy.”

“Good idea! That sounds like fun. I’ll infiltrate the inner sanctum of primary school cliques.”

“Well when you put it like that, it actually sounds like an official government spy mission.”

“That’s what I was going for, you think it worked?”

“Absolutely.”

“When do you guys leave for the States?”

“The day after tomorrow. And we don’t get back until a week before the new school year starts.”

“Wow, that’s a long holiday. My parents couldn’t put up with each other that long. Plus, my father has to work and he could only get a fortnight off.”

“My dad practically runs the company he works for, so he could take an entire year off if he wanted to. At least, that’s what my mum said when I asked her how it was possible. We’ve done a big trip every other summer for as long as I can remember.”

“I hope you have lots of fun. You’d better not pick up a stupid accent while you’re there,” I warned. We approached the car park, and were forced to go our separate ways. As Sebastian walked towards his mother’s car and I walked to mine, we called to each other one last time, “See you next year!” I sighed and hopped into the back seat. It was going to be a long summer.


	21. Wealth and Taste

The beginning of the summer was just like any summer before: incredibly boring. I guess it was nice to let my brain wake itself up instead of having to get out of bed at a specific time to get to school on time, but I still would rather be in school than waste so much time lazing around the house. My mother had put me in a few camps, and they alleviated the monotony to some degree, but the other children were so devastatingly stupid it was all I could do not to storm out of the building. 

The weeks I wasn’t in camp were even worse, since my only company was Connor. From age three, he’d been absolutely obsessed with trains, and he expected everyone else to share his passion. I didn’t dare leave my room for any stretch of time out of fear he’d drag me into making yet another railroad. There were only so many possible configurations with a thirty piece set. Even worse was the constant noise, “Choo choo! All aboard!” The trains didn’t even have room for people inside, they were solid wood. And there was no reason to take a train to travel ten feet across the room. Besides, where would a person the size of a grain of rice have to go in the first place?

I only got suckered into playing with him five times that summer, which was five too many for me. Most of them were my mother forcing me to appease him so he’d stop bothering her while she tried to do housework. I tried to make it fun for myself by staging massive crashes or inventing a mystery for Connor to solve a la Murder on the Orient Express. He didn’t appreciate that. Maybe because I always casted him as the victim.

When I wasn’t evading Connor, I was practicing my maths or reading a book. I was determined to enter seventh class as the smartest and best prepared kid in the entire school. Not that I was prone to forget anything once it was stored in my mental database, but I studied just to make sure everything stayed in the right place. Another reason was simply that it was something to do. I read all of Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, and Edgar Allan Poe within the first three weeks of summer. I enjoyed the Tell-Tale Heart more than any of the others.

Often, I thought of Sebastian and how much fun he’d be having in the US. I feared he’d be enjoying himself so much that he’d forget to miss me as much as I was missing him. On the bright side, Martin made no successful attempts at contact. I hoped his parents had sent him to sleep-away camp or something that would keep him equally as occupied. I counted down the days until we left for London, and it seemed like an eternity before the exes on the calendar finally reached our departure date.

My family travelling anywhere was a recipe for disaster. Earlier, I explained how my mother took forever to get herself out of the house for an evening, and it took her exponentially longer to get the whole family ready for a week-long holiday. Each member of the family packed their own suitcase, but she took it upon herself to double check everything we planned to pack before we packed it, and triple check Connor’s. There were also the endless additional bags and cases full of ‘necessities’ like snacks, games, and the like. Our flight was scheduled to leave at eight o’clock in the morning, meaning the wakeup call came at four o’clock sharp. The night before, Connor threw an hour-long tantrum that night because he had to go to bed early even though ‘it’s not even a school night!’ I chuckled upon seeing him that morning, trudging around like a zombie. I hoped he regretted throwing such a fit, since his screaming kept me up too. 

It was five thirty in the morning, half an hour before our ideal arrival time at the airport. My mother was a cyclone, frantically throwing things into the boot while jabbering instructions at anyone she passed. I glanced at my father and we both chuckled at her absurd antics. My father had a much more organised approach to leaving for a big trip: he set everything aside far in advance so he wouldn’t have to rush to put it all together at the last minute. 

Connor sat in the corner of the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, tears silently streaming down his face as he’d just been shouted at by Mum for forgetting to pack knickers. I wandered around the house dodging my mother since I’d already packed everything the previous weekend. I hadn’t seen her run so fast since Connor had attempted to eat his rattle and nearly choked when he was a baby.

After a hectic half an hour, my mother announced that everything was in order. We filed into the car and waited for her to mentally check her list three more times before pulling out into the street. We made it about three minutes before she shrieked that she’d forgotten her passport. We returned to the house, waited for her to fetch it, and set out again. This time, we made it five minutes before the gasped that she’d forgotten the book she planned to read on the flight. Yet again, my father reluctantly turned around and drove back to the house. She dashed into the house, grabbed the book, and returned looking even more flustered than I thought possible. We made it ten minutes before she exclaimed that she’d forgotten nappies. My father almost turned around before he realised we hadn’t brought nappies on a trip in three years.

“Sorry, old habits die hard,” my mother said. “I’ve forgotten nappies before, I guess in all the rush I forgot our youngest son is already seven years old.”

“Just calm down, take a deep breath, and we’ll actually make it to the airport,” my father instructed. The drive to the airport was only a half hour, but Connor still managed to ask ‘are we there yet?’ twenty times. Running nearly an hour late, we dashed through the airport as if we were pursued. Connor nearly got lost when his hand slipped from my mother’s grasp and he fell behind in the madness. Frankly, I was embarrassed to be a part of a family such as this. If I was in charge, we’d be calmly proceeding through security and would end up with half an hour to spare. 

Unfortunately, I was a part of this family, a family with a mother who practically screamed at the luggage people to hurry the hell up, attempted to manually speed up the conveyor belt, and carried her son piggyback through the airport because he couldn’t run fast enough. By some miracle, we made it onto the plane in time. My mother was dead asleep within five minutes of taking her seat, and Connor followed soon after. I’d packed a book in my carry-on, so I pulled it out and settled in to read as we took off for London.

~0~

The arrival was much calmer than the departure, since we didn’t have any sort of deadline. Evidently, my mother didn’t do well with deadlines. We checked into our hotel at noon, which was earlier than we’d expected to arrive. My father wanted to go somewhere exciting that afternoon, but my mother claimed she was too mentally and physically exhausted to do anything for the next eight hours, and Connor concurred, only in fewer words. 

“I’ll go somewhere with you, Dad,” I said. It wouldn’t do to waste so much time after all the struggle to get here.

“Where would you like to go?” he inquired.

“I don’t know, I thought you and Mum knew all the places you wanted to take us.”

“We do know where we want to go all together, but we didn’t plan any excursions with just the two of us. You must know something about London, is there something in particular you’d like to visit?”

“Well, is the Tower of London on your agenda?”

“Yes, it is. We’ll see that sometime this week, we didn’t plan exactly day by day. 

“How about the British Museum?”

“Perfect. We didn’t think Connor would enjoy that, so we weren’t planning to go together, but that sounds like the perfect afternoon activity for the two of us.”

We said goodbye to my mother and Connor, both of whom looked ready for a twenty-four hour nap, and hailed a cab to the Museum. I’d been in taxis before, but never an authentic, London cab. I requested my father teach me to hail a cab sometime while we were here, and he promised he would.

We arrived at the museum, which, fortunately, wasn’t overly crowded. I wasn’t a big fan of manoeuvring around massive mobs of people and craning my neck to attempt to look at an exhibit over the heads of overenthusiastic tourists. The galleries were quite open, so we had free reign to look at whatever we pleased at our own pace. My father had been there on a few occasions in his youth, so he had a pretty definitive route on which he wished to take me.

We saw a bunch of old artefacts from Greece and Rome—most of which were boring chipped vases or sculptures of marginally famous people—Chinese pottery, and some stuff from the Mayans and Aztecs of Mexico. The most interesting object in the entire museum was the Rosetta Stone, whose plaque said it was the key to deciphering ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. As I gazed at the intricate carvings, I imagined what it would have been like to be one of the people responsible for cracking the code of hieroglyphics. The elation they would have undoubtedly felt upon succeeding would have been unimaginable. It was difficult to fathom the countless hours they must have put into this project.

We stayed and explored the museum for about three hours before my father insisted we go back to check on my mother and Connor. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was growing bored of looking at old stuff. He let me attempt to hail the taxi on the way home, and I actually succeeded on the third attempt. My short stature made it incredibly difficult to be noticed on the busy sidewalk, but some exaggerated jumping up and down did the trick.

A few minutes later, we arrived back at the room to find my mother and Connor still fast asleep. We decided to let them rest and just do some quiet activity until dinnertime, so I immediately buried myself in a book I’d brought. Knowing my mother and brother, I expected to have lots of down time when they were too exhausted to do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor's love of trains is a reference to the original Doyle stories, by the way. But Moriarty's brother was also named James in the book for whatever reason. But I decided to pick a different name to prevent confusion.


	22. Before They Reached

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to say that this might be my favorite chapter of the entire story, solely because of certain small details I'm sure you will notice ;)

The next morning, Connor and my mother were finally rested enough to go out and do stuff with us. My parents had planned a visit to the Tower of London itself to kick off our holiday, so that was our destination of the day. Somehow, we managed to make it in time to catch the morning tour. I tried to pay attention to most of what the guide said, even though it was basically a dull history of the British monarchy. Though I nearly dozed off while he was droning on about something with ravens.

However, the end of the tour included a viewing of the famous Crown Jewels. When I caught a glimpse of them resting on a velvet cushion within their glass case, I was absolutely enthralled. They seemed to sparkle, as if they were aware of their own importance. The tour guide started with a history of the jewels themselves, but I wasn’t listening until he mentioned a famous heist from the seventeenth century.

“Thomas Blood once attempted to steal the Crown Jewels with a ridiculously elaborate plan that almost succeeded. Blood hired a prostitute to pose as his wife, and together they convinced Talbot Edwards, the Keeper of the Jewels, that their ‘nephew’ would marry his daughter. Wholeheartedly trusting Blood now that he was family, Edwards allowed them to see the jewels practically unguarded. Blood and his assistants knocked him out and smashed the jewels to make them small enough to hide on their person. They attempted to escape, but were quickly apprehended by other guards. However, the shocking twist in this story is that King Charles II didn’t even execute Blood, but was so amused by his elaborate scheme that he granted him a title and an estate in Ireland. I guess sometimes, crime does pay,” the guide rambled monotonously. He probably gave this spiel several times a day; the story had undoubtedly lost its allure.

Upon hearing this narrative, I couldn’t help but silently criticise Blood for not thinking his plan through just a little bit more. He got so far and was foiled by a rookie mistake. I’d learned from spying on the crime shows my father watched that the getaway was often the most crucial part of an escapade. If you couldn’t get out and evade capture, all your successes in breaching the perimeter and getting in were obsolete. On the other hand, I did admire his manipulation of the Keeper’s emotions to gain access to the jewels. A person was always the weakest link in any secure organisation. 

After the tour concluded, we followed the masses out and back into the streets of London. My father asked me what I thought of the Tower of London.

“It was pretty cool. I just don’t understand the whole monarchy thing, don’t we have a Prime Minister?”

“Yes, nowadays the Prime Minister handles most of the actual governing, the kings and queens are more for ceremonial or publicity things.”

“Why’d they add a Prime Minister if they already had a ruler?”

“They felt that a monarchy wasn’t as fair to the people. They wanted what’s called democracy, have you learned about that in school?”

“I think so, but I don’t pay much attention in history. Isn’t the US really big on democracy?”

“Yes, when they separated from Great Britain, part of it was dislike for how the king was ruling. They thought he didn’t treat them fairly.”

“But he’s the king, he can do whatever he wants.”

“That may be true, but a king is expected to do what’s best for his people.”

“Why?”

“That’s just the way it is.”

“What happens if a king is bad?”

“If his subjects don’t like him, he could be deposed or assassinated.”

“Then who becomes king?”

“The next of kin. Usually the eldest son. Power in a monarchy is passed down through blood.”

“Okay,” I said, ending the conversation. The whole topic of democracy versus monarchy was rather boring. Personally, I thought that all the people in Parliament or any large legislature just slowed things down. How did they ever get anything done with so many conflicting opinions? Things were so much simpler when kings made all the decisions, and most people were perfectly happy. 

“Hurry up Jim, you’ll get lost,” my mother called. I hadn’t even realised I’d fallen behind I was so lost in thought. “We’re going to Hyde Park to take a walk.” I jogged a few steps to catch up and grabbed my mother’s outstretched hand. I was slightly embarrassed at having to hold her hand, but she worried I’d get lost in the busy city if she couldn’t feel my fingers in hers at all times. 

Hyde Park was a startling juxtaposition after the crowded, urban city. The massive expanse of greenery seemed to spread endlessly into the distance, filled with trees and shrubs and a beautiful body of water. All around, people meandered and chatted aimlessly, enjoying the sunny day. I’d heard it rained a lot in London, but so far we’d experienced only pleasant weather. As we walked, I observed all the different people and wondered what their lives were like. It was a little game I liked to play with myself whenever I went to a crowded public place. I noticed a stressed businessman enjoying a rare break between meetings, a young couple clearly honeymooning by the dreamy look in their eyes and their refusal to look away from each other for even a second, and a single mother with her young daughter.

A few minutes later, we came across two boys who appeared to be arguing over a dirty shoe. One was a scrawny kid about my age with thick, dark curls and the other appeared much older—and portlier. The younger one pointed to something on the insole and smugly tossed the shoe into the other’s hands. The older boy ran his finger along the laces, melodramatically rolled his eyes at the other, and proceeded to speak for an incredibly long time. The younger boy’s face fell as he listened to the tirade, and I desperately wanted to know the significance of the shoe and why they were so obsessed with it.

“Jim! It’s rude to stare,” my mother chastised, dragging me along behind her. I hadn’t even realised how long I’d been standing there watching the two boys argue. My mother’s exclamation drew their attention, and I met the gaze of the younger boy for a split second. It wasn’t long, but in that second, an incredible feeling washed over me, almost like déjà vu, but in reverse. Before I could dwell on it any longer, my mother yanked my hand even more firmly and I was forced to march alongside her and leave the odd boys behind.

Had I known what they were doing at the time, I would have stood my ground and observed them for longer; maybe even eventually joined them.

~0~

The rest of the holiday was full of typical tourism. We visited all the supposedly famous places: Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Big Ben, and Buckingham Palace. I heard at least three oral histories of the British monarchy—which is three more than anyone ever needs to hear. We also watched the play Macbeth at the reconstructed Globe theatre, which was probably the highlight of the trip for me. It details the story of a man who is given a prophecy by three witches that he will someday become king, so he considers killing the current monarch. However, he isn’t yet evil and is reluctant to commit regicide, but his wife convinces him. He goes mad with power and murders a bunch of other people that pose as threats to his throne while his wife falls victim to guilt and grief. At the end, Macbeth realises the futility of life and is killed by rival Macduff. I probably missed a lot of the deeper themes, but the swordfights were incredibly engaging.

Connor, on the other hand, hated every second. He constantly complained that he couldn’t understand anything they were saying, and my mother eventually had to take him out of the theatre for a break. I wondered why they thought it would be a good idea to bring a seven-year-old to a mature dramatic production. Additionally, my father, an avid Shakespeare fan, simply didn’t like these particular actors’ renditions of the characters. He claimed Lady Macbeth was way too feminine and the witches not ugly enough.

The excursion to London Aquarium was also quite worthwhile. Connor loved the jellyfish because they looked like balloons with too many strings. I dared him to try to grab one of those ‘strings’ and the idiot actually tried to reach through the glass. My favourite exhibit was easily the tiger sharks. They swam about their tank with such an air of nonchalance, as if they knew exactly how dangerous and intimidating they were, and they were just daring someone to look them in the eye. 

I did look one of them in the eye, actually. It swam right past me and I stared deep into that black, beady orb. Contained within that small circle was a suppressed predatory instinct and a malicious thirst for blood. I pressed my nose to the glass and watched it swim around for a while longer. I’d learned once that some species of shark would drown if they stopped swimming because they have no way to push water through their gills. Deep down, I felt like I could relate to that. My brain constantly needed stimulation; it always needed to be working on something or it would tear itself apart with boredom.

I wanted to continue to watch the sharks, but Connor was already bored with them, so of course my mother insisted we move on. Whenever there was any disagreement, Connor’s needs and wants took precedence. He’d trained my mother well: he’d throw a nasty tantrum if his request wasn’t granted in a reasonable amount of time. Her abhorrence of public humiliation from a crying child outweighed her sense of justice, so between Connor and me, Connor always won. I wouldn’t dare do something so childish just to get what I wanted; I considered myself above that.

It wasn’t until halfway through the trip that I really began to miss Sebastian. Everything we did would have been twice as fun with him by my side. We could have fantasised about staging our own Crown Jewels heist, poked fun at all the boring tour guides behind their backs, and commentated on Macbeth. Sebastian would have absolutely adored all the sword fights. I counted the days in my head, and groaned when I totalled twenty three more days until the start of the new school year. It was going to be a struggle to find stuff to occupy all the empty hours.

Of course, a trip to London wasn’t complete without a ride on the Tube, so that’s exactly what we did on our last day. The stations were bustling with people, so my mother clenched my hand so tightly I feared I would lose circulation. Connor literally squealed with joy when he saw the train approaching. I would never understand his obsession with locomotives. He sprinted towards the door the second it opened, catching my mother—and me, by association—totally off guard. We must have looked like lunatics, stumbling along behind a little boy towards the open door like we were fleeing a zombie army. Apparently, Londoners had seen stranger things before, and they paid us no attention whatsoever. In a big city, one could get away with lots of crazy things that would raise hell in a smaller town.

The Tube ride itself was rather uneventful; we just stood there and watched people get on and off at every station. Connor appeared high, he was so excited. He bounced up and down on his toes in anticipation of whatever he found so invigorating about trains. I spent the entire time observing passersby like I always did when there was nothing better to do. Most were simply commuters going to work or home, but one was a man returning from somewhere far away who was to be reunited with his family. Don’t ask how I figured that out, it would take me far too long to explain, but everything about his appearance and demeanour screamed it.

Once the ride was over, we made our way back to the hotel and started packing to go home. Fortunately, my mother was better at going home than she was a leaving, so there was far less frantic energy dispersed throughout the room. I’d kept all my stuff organised as the days passed, so I had very little work to do to get ready to leave. Everything went into my case nice and neat and I sat down with a book to bide the time until we left the next morning.

I tried to focus on the reading, but my mind kept wandering to other places: the two strange boys in Hyde Park, missing Sebastian, and anticipation for the new school year. In secondary school, we had much more say over the types of classes we took. Sebastian and I were both, of course, taking the mandatory courses: English, history, science, P.E., some rotations of fine arts, and math. I’d done research on the curriculum for seventh class, and found out that the history class focused entirely on Europe, and science was mostly biology. Different students took different math classed depending on their ability level, but Sebastian and I were both in Algebra I.

Another perk of secondary school was that it started earlier than primary school, so I wouldn’t have to deal with Connor in the mornings. Starting secondary school would solve literally every problem I had in my life, and I simply couldn’t wait. It reminded me of the time my mother first mentioned the concept of school when I was a little kid, and I spent every waking second wishing the seconds away so I could go ahead and start already. Right now was exactly like then, only more complicated because my brain demanded more complex and engaging activity to avoid falling into depression. I said it once before and I’ll say it again: it was going to be a long summer.


	23. Oh Yeah!

By some miracle, I made it through the summer without dying. There were some close calls, experiments gone wrong, arguments taken a little too far, and the like, but I survived with myself and everyone in my immediate vicinity intact. I awoke bright and early on Monday morning, allowing myself plenty of time to triple check that I had everything I would need. Since we lived close by, Sebastian and I would be carpooling this year. Last year, it was more convenient for my mother to take me since she had Connor’s car seat in her car, but now I would be picked up by Sebastian’s mom on their way to school.

My father was still at home when I awoke, which was a novel concept for me. He’d always been long gone when I got ready in the mornings. Before leaving for work, he gave me a big hug and wished me luck on my first day. My mother did the same when I started out the door towards the waiting car. I hadn’t seen Sebastian since the end of the previous school year, since he only got back from the States a few days ago, and I was eager to hear all about his adventures.

“Jim!” he called from the back seat. Fortunately, he hadn’t kept any accent he might’ve adopted in the US. “Are you stoked?”

“You bet I am! I’ve been counting down the days since the beginning of summer,” I replied eagerly.

“You do know that normal kids do the opposite, right? Count down the days of school until summer.”

“Of course I know that, when have I ever cared what lame, normal people do? I’m ready to show up a whole other class of idiots.”

“Keep an open mind, some of them might not be idiots.”

“I choose a pessimistic point of view to avoid disappointment. If I assume they’re all idiots and find someone with some brains in their skull, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“That actually makes sense in some twisted way.”

“Of course it does. Everything I say makes sense.”

“Okay, that’s a lie.”

“When have I ever said something that didn’t make sense?”

“That time you suggested we steal Ben’s trousers and hoist them up the flagpole.”

“That was sarcasm, it doesn’t have to make sense. That doesn’t count.”

“Fine. But I will think of something, you say weird stuff all the time.”

“Are you boys ready?” Sebastian’s mother asked.

“Yes, Mum,” he replied. The secondary school was just a little farther than the primary school and in a different part of town, so I stared out the window and memorised the route while Sebastian told me stories of his trip to the US.

“We visited the Statue of Liberty. Did you know you can actually go inside her? It was crazy, I felt like I was breaking the law or something. And Mount Rushmore is ridiculous; I can’t believe they spent all that time and money carving faces into a mountain. For most of it, they used dynamite.”

“That’s nuts,” I responded.

“And they have the weirdest terms for things. They call crisps chips and chips fries. And they drive on the wrong side of the road.”

“They’re a strange people.”

“Jim, they’re not a different race. Most of them are descended from Europeans.”

“I know that, but their insane desire to be different than the rest of the world makes them weird. They devised a new system of measurement with the most messed up conversions. Twelve inches to a foot, three feet to a yard, five thousand two hundred eighty feet to a mile. The metric system actually makes sense, everything’s in tens. Are they trying to make their children smarter by making them memorise these obscure facts of measurement?”

“I’ve never thought about it like that, but their measurement system is a bit messed up. It doesn’t make any sense why they’d want something different than metric. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“Sebastian, you know I hate it when you use such cliché phrases.”

“I know that, I just enjoy annoying you.”

“Oh, go back to the States,” I joked, punching him in the shoulder.

“How many classes do you think we’ll be in together?”

“Hopefully all of them since we did sign up for all the same things.”

“Yeah, hopefully. If not, I guess you’ll just have to make more friends. Just do me a favour and pick someone better than the likes of Martin, that kid was clingy.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll only befriend the worthy. Although, I doubt anyone will be too keen to be friends with me, I’ll easily be the smallest kid in the whole school.”

~0~

I was easily the smallest kid in the whole school. Everywhere I looked a forest of legs and torsos greeted me. The older kids in eleventh and twelfth classes were giants, towering over me with their facial hair and body odour. Sebastian snickered at me, and I tried to punch him again, but he dodged me. Unfortunately, his evasion of my fist led him to crash into the back of a particularly large and hairy teenage boy. I held my breath, waiting for him to turn around and beat him to a pulp, but apparently he was so gargantuan that the impact didn’t even register. Sebastian sighed with relief and we laughed all the way to first period.

As we walked, we compared schedule and were ecstatic to find we had every class in common! This was going to be the best year ever. We entered the classroom and glanced at a seating chart on the board. Just with a quick glimpse we could tell it was alphabetical, and we simultaneously fist-pumped to ourselves. There was little possibility for a name to separate Moran and Moriarty. We found our seats which were—as expected—right next to each other. We watched as kids filtered into the room little by little and took their seats. Several did a double take when they saw me, and I internally smiled at their surprise. I was looking forward to showing these nimrods up.

As with every first day of school, the teacher began by introducing herself as Ms. Allan, our history teacher, taking attendance, and handing out a syllabus. I stuffed it into a folder where I would put the dozen others I’d undoubtedly get throughout that day. As she read through the attendance list, I recognised about half the names as kids from my primary school, the others were unfamiliar. Afterwards, she gave a brief synopsis of everything we’d be learning in her class that year. I zoned in and out as she gave her speech; most of what she’d be teaching us was either incredibly boring or something I already knew. I’d actually learned more than I expected to on our trip to London.

This routine continued in every class: introduction, attendance, syllabus, summary. Every teacher either had alphabetical or choose-your-own seating, so Sebastian and I ended up next to each other in every class. Most of our teachers were typical people; nothing struck me as special about many of them. Ms. Allan for history, Mr. Graves for math, Ms. Drake for science, Mr. Morgan for P.E., Ms. Eastman for art, and Ms. O’Toole for English. Our last class of the day was English, and at this point, everyone was absolutely knackered from listening to teachers drone on about their lesson plans and standardized testing and other odds and ends. Ms. O’Toole seemed to understand this, and admitted she felt the same way.

“I know you’ve probably done this many times already today, but I do have to take attendance for two reasons. One: so I can begin to learn your names and avoid just pointing and saying ‘you there’ whenever I call on you. Two: administration likes to know who’s cutting class, and if I don’t turn this in, they’ll fire me. But, since this is the last period of the day, I will try to spice it up so you lot don’t fall asleep on me. Sound fair?” she said. Already, I was impressed with her sense of humour and willingness to admit her own subservience to the school’s administration. After she finished calling role, she grabbed a big stack of books out of a cabinet and plopped them down on her desk. 

“This is everything you’ll be reading this year in my class,” she announced, casually leaning on the stack as if it were a bar. This statement evoked a groan from everyone in the classroom except me and Sebastian. “I know it looks like a lot, but you’ll thank me later. Not only will you learn about literature in my class, you will learn time management and other valuable skills the government is too lazy to formally fit into a curriculum.”

Looking at the massive pile of tomes, excitement swelled up within me. Between this and all my other classes, I might actually have enough homework to occupy me for more than half an hour. I could barely make out the titles from my seat in the middle of the room, but most of them looked like classics that everyone read at some point during their schooling. However, the book on top of the stack didn’t fit this pattern: it was the original Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

“I know most of you aren’t going to like this, but I will be handing out our first book of the year to you today. You’re not expected to finish it by tomorrow or anything, I’m not that mean, but I would like you to look it over tonight and maybe read one or two of the stories in it,” she explained. Returning to the cabinet, she began removing dozens of copies of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “You have no idea how much educational bureaucracy I had to finagle my way through to get this book approved for a seventh class curriculum. They insisted it was too violent, but I somehow managed to convince them to see things my way. Many of you will find some of these stories downright gory and disgusting, and that’s okay. I like to start the year off with this book not just because it’s one of my favourites, but also because it teaches an important lesson. Growing up, most of us read the watered down versions of these stories, where everyone lives happily ever after. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works in the real world. I don’t mean to sound like a total downer, but life can really suck. Hopefully, it won’t turn out for you guys like it did for some of the characters in this book, but many of your hopes and fantasies simply will not come true.

“Most of you are probably going to go home and tell your parents at dinner that Ms. O’Toole said that dreams don’t come true, and that’s okay. If their first impression of me is that I’m a realist, that’s totally okay with me. I’m not trying to crush your dreams; I’m just giving you a realistic perspective of the world and how it works. You can choose to ignore me and pursue whatever your heart desires, but when I see you on the street with a broken mug begging for spare change, I’m going to be that jerk who gives you a leaf.”

This monologue left the entire class speechless. In primary school, no teacher ever dared put down a child’s dreams, it was practically heresy. Most of us had never been told anything so bluntly before, but personally; I had to say I loved it. Fools with big dreams caused way too many problems, some of them needed to be put in their place. I glanced over at Sebastian and our eyes widened with understanding. I could tell just by looking at him that he was just as shocked with Ms. O’Toole’s bluntness as I was. As much as I’d always loved maths, I had a feeling English might be my favourite class this year.


	24. Anastasia

The first night home, I’d gotten all my syllabi signed and sat down with Grimm’s Fairy Tales for a good two hours. I probably read half the stories before my mother called me to dinner and I was forced to stop. As I read, I marvelled at how anyone could ever wish to change the storyline. These were so much better than the little stories my mother had read to Connor when he was a baby. For example, in Rapunzel, the prince falls from the tower and is blinded by thorns. Who in their right mind would cut that detail out?

In Cinderella, most of the storyline was the same, but this version had a much better ending. The evil stepsisters attempted to fit into the shoe by cutting off their toes or part of their heel. To punish them for their treachery, the doves that befriended Cinderella peck out both of their eyes, leaving them permanently blinded. Apparently, Grimm really had a thing for blindness. And in Hansel and Gretel, the witch is a cannibal who traps the children to eat them. Gretel outwits her and shoves her into her own oven to burn.

That day at school, I asked Sebastian how many he’d read, and he said he read only the first three. He’d gone in order instead of picking and choosing the more renowned ones as I had. 

“Why are we reading this in English class? Doesn’t an English book have to contain themes to analyse or something like that?” I asked him.

“I’m guessing there are themes. Don’t all fairy tales have a moral? I’m sure Ms. O’Toole will explain it. If not, then she just introduced us to a good book,” he replied. I wasn’t sure which I would prefer, having to analyse and pick apart Grimm’s Fairy Tales to write three essays on it, or just being instructed to read it for enjoyment. It wasn’t something I would pick off a shelf of my own accord, but I was enjoying it immensely.

The whole school day dragged for eons since I was eagerly awaiting English. Even maths seemed to drag by, and not just because I finished the diagnostic test twenty minutes before anyone else did. I wondered what Ms. O’Toole had planned for today, and if it was anything like yesterday, I knew it would be incredibly engaging. She was easily the best teacher I’d ever had throughout my entire public education.

At last, the bell rang dismissing us to last period, and Sebastian and I raced down the halls to Ms. O’Toole’s. One advantage of being the smallest kid in the school: weaving through massive crowds in the corridors was much easier. I could squeeze through gaps that nobody else would even dream of fitting through. In our haste, we almost blew right past the door to her classroom, but we were still the first ones in the classroom.

“What took you so long?” Ms. O’Toole asked sarcastically. “The bell just rang a minute ago, how did you get here so fast?”

“We moved quickly,” I said huffily. 

“Clearly. Why’d you rush? You have a five minute passing period to get here.”

“We were just excited,” Sebastian interjected. “You made a fabulous first impression on us yesterday, and we wanted to get here as soon as possible to discuss Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Both of us are loving it so far.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll be reading a few of them aloud to the class today, and we’ll discuss some of the morals. Which ones did you two read already?”

“I read Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Hansel and Gretel,” I said. “I wanted to start with ones I’d read versions of before to ease my way into the writing style.”

“I read the Frog King, Cat and Mouse in Partnership, and Mary’s Child,” Sebastian added. “I just started from the beginning out of habit.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s great to see that you’re so enthusiastic. It’ll be a pleasure to have you in my class this year.”

We took our seats and eagerly awaited the beginning of the lesson. Ms. O’Toole took attendance, of course, but she kept us on our toes by going in random order instead of simply reading down the list. It was little things like that that set her apart from other teachers. She asked for a show of hands how many of us had opened our books last night. Mine and Sebastian’s hands shot into the air, and about six other people raised theirs as well. 

“Not as many as I’d hoped, but that’s okay!” she said cheerily. “I’ll be reading a few of them to you today, and your homework will be to read a story of your choice. There are lots to choose from, so I don’t want any excuses as to why you didn’t do your homework.”

She proceeded to read us Rumpelstiltskin, which I’d heard of but possessed no clue as to the details of the plot. As I listened to her voice, I realised she had the perfect tone for narrating books. She was the ideal storyteller, accentuating dialogue when necessary, but not being overly bombastic like many of my primary school teachers were. The story was just as exciting as it needed to be, and no more. Rumpelstiltskin was a little creature who could spin straw into gold, and he did so for a young girl whose father threatened to kill her if she couldn’t produce gold like she promised. In return, he takes the girl’s jewellery until she has none left to give. He requests her firstborn child in exchange for spinning the last batch of straw into gold.

When the child is born, he comes searching for it, but the girl refuses to give it up. She strikes a deal with Rumpelstiltskin that she can keep the baby if she can guess his name within three guesses. To beat this challenge, she secretly follows him home and hears him chanting his name in a song. Rumpelstiltskin is so upset that his unbeatable riddle has been beaten that he stomps his foot into the ground so hard, a chasm opens up and swallows him.

When Ms. O’Toole finished the story, a dead silence hung over the room. Even those who’d heard the story before were shocked at the violence of the ending. Everyone was too flabbergasted to answer Ms. O’Toole’s question as to the moral of the story. Everyone except me, whose intrinsic need to be the favourite student trumped any other motivation.

Seeing my raised hand, Ms. O’Toole said, “Yes, Jim?”

“A major theme in the story is that a little lie can have massive repercussions,” I stated. This is the theme I knew the teacher was looking for, but it wasn’t really the most definitive message I got out of listening to it. My main question was why Rumpelstiltskin had been dumb enough to chant his name out loud. He had this unbeatable riddle, and he ruined it! If he’d just kept his mouth shut, he’d have the baby he so desperately wanted for some reason. Fairy tale characters and their obsession with babies mystified me. Also, he shouldn’t have gotten that upset at being outsmarted. What did he expect after singing his name aloud? For a magical elf-creature that could spin straw into gold, he was awfully stupid.

“Yes, you’re right. The small fib the girl told that she could spin straw into gold almost cost her the firstborn child. Did anyone observe another theme? Possibly related more to Rumpelstiltskin’s side of the story? Sebastian,” she called after he raised his hand.

“Well, Rumpelstiltskin became arrogant, and that cost him his prize. He gloated about his unbeatable riddle, and that was his defeat,” Sebastian said. As happened often, I was ecstatic to hear my best friend share my opinion, since it proved how perfect we were for each other. Great minds think alike.

“Yes, definitely. Arrogance and lying are major flaws the author discusses. I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She noticed the bell was barely a minute from ringing, and quickly explained our homework, “I would like all of you to write a short story or fairy tale that has an identifiable moral. I expect rough drafts by Monday, and the final will be due Wednesday. Have a nice evening.”

As the class packed up, I began creating a list of possible themes I could write about. I wanted my story to stand out, so I didn’t want to choose a moral that had already been beaten to death in story after story. Definitely none of this ‘slow and steady wins the race’ nonsense. Then, the idea struck me to write the opposite of what was expected: a story with a negative moral. Most fairy tales taught children to do the right thing, but I decided mine would demonstrate that sometimes deception or amorality were necessary for survival.

“Sebastian, what are you planning to write for the project?” I inquired while we walked through the corridors to the front doors.

“I haven’t really decided yet, it’s hard for me to think unless I’m in my room in complete silence. There are too many distractions around here for me to come up with good ideas. What about you?” he replied.

“I don’t have a final theme, but I know I’m going to go dark. Sometimes doing the right thing is impossible, or the fact that the line between right and wrong is blurred.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“That’s the idea. I’ve got to stand out. I don’t want to write just another fairy tale.”

“Why are you so determined to be different than everyone else? You’re already exceptional; you’re in seventh class at age nine.”

“While I appreciate your flattery, I disagree. There’s always room for more individuality.”

“You sound like a guidance counsellor or a therapist.”

“I’m not trying to be philosophical, that’s just how I think. It’s in my nature to strive to be unique.”

“Well, it’s in my nature to get things done without over-exhausting myself.”

“I won’t be overexerting myself, I’ll be filling in my spare time with something worthwhile. I have a lot of free time.”

“I wish I could say that, but between school, homework, and football practice, I barely have time to eat.”

“Since when do you play football?”

“Since I was four. You didn’t know that?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It’s impossible that I haven’t mentioned it in all the years we’ve known each other.”

“You probably did say something about it, but I guess I forgot. I tend to forget things that don’t directly affect me.”

“And you wonder why Mrs. Fletcher thought you were a psychopath.”

“That’s not psychopathic, it’s just realistic. Why would I crowd my brain with unnecessary information?”

“I understand that part, it’s the things you consider unnecessary that are a bit concerning. I’m your best friend, you should know that I love football.”

“Okay, I guess that makes sense. I’ll make sure to remember that little titbit about you. Thanks for setting me straight.” 

“That’s what I’m here for. You need to be set straight quite often,” he chuckled, playfully swatting me on the shoulder. I smacked him back, harder, and we chased each other down the sidewalk to his mom’s car. Sebastian’s legs were far longer than mine, so he easily beat me, and he jokingly rubbed it in my face the whole ride home.

When Sebastian’s mother pulled up outside my house, I thanked her and dashed inside to start work on my story. Usually, I started with the most boring homework in order to save the best for last, but my excitement couldn’t be contained. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and began frantically scribbling down ideas as they spontaneously popped into my head. Within ten minutes, I had a loose framework of the plot and theme, so I grabbed a fresh piece of paper and began to write.


	25. The Bodies Stank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, I got to write a fairy tale how I thought Jim would want one to go. It was pretty fun :)

I was so engrossed in my own writing that I didn’t even hear when my mother called me downstairs for dinner. She had to physically come in and grab me. I’d never loved English class before—math had always been my strongest and favourite subject—but some combination of Ms. O’Toole’s attitude and the intrigue of Grimm’s Fairy Tales unleashed a fiery passion the likes of which I’d never before experienced. I was so focused on this story that I almost neglected to do my other homework.

The downside of this zealousness: every other class seemed like a drag. Maths still managed to hold a slight appeal, but everything else was just an abominable waste of my time. Throughout the week, I snuck the paper containing my story onto my desk and worked on it while pretending to take notes on the Seven Years War, or whatever nonsense the government insisted was crucial for us to know. I finished the rough draft on Friday, far before it was actually due, which gave me lots of time to read over it and fix any imperfections. My goal was to minimize any potential edits I’d get when we peer reviewed our stories on Monday. 

When Monday finally arrived, Sebastian and I burst into Ms. O’Toole’s room out of breath, since we’d walked as fast as we could without getting called out by a teacher for running in the halls.

“I still can’t quite believe your enthusiasm,” Ms. O’Toole remarked. “I thought I was passionate about English, but you two are giving me a run for my money.”

When the entirety of the class arrived, she explained that we could choose our partners for peer editing. I was glad of this, since I wanted Sebastian to be the first to read my masterpiece. He scoured mine while I leafed through his. I glanced up periodically to watch his face, internally laughing as it morphed into a mask of horror.

“Do you think Ms. O’Toole will like it?” I asked when he finished.

“Well...” he hesitated. “It’s certainly unique.”

“Sebastian, that is the most ambiguous thing you could possibly say about anything.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Was it good or bad? It’s a simple question.”

“Good, I guess.”

“It’s your opinion, there’s no guessing involved.”

“Fine. It’s good.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear. Was that so hard?”

“What did you think of mine?” he inquired, changing the subject.

“I like your main character, since he’s pretty dynamic for a short story. The overall plot was interesting, but I’m a little confused as to what the moral is supposed to be.”

“That’s the point. In life, things aren’t always crystal clear. The same situation can be interpreted many different ways by different people.”

“Whoa. You went really philosophical. As long as you explain it like that during your presentation, you’re good as gold.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed his paper back from me and scanned it quickly.

“Most of that is just grammatical or spelling stuff. The story itself is great, just fix all that superficial stuff.”

“I didn’t really look for any of the stuff in yours, but knowing you, there wasn’t anything to fix anyway.”

“You’re probably right. I’ve already gone over it three times myself, but even I can miss things occasionally.”

“Is that modesty? It looks so strange on you,” Sebastian teased, so I punched him in the arm. Sarcasm and mock violence: the language of friendship.

~0~

“A young boy lived on a farm with his parents and five sisters. They lead a peaceful life, planting crops and tending to their animals, not a care in the world except the likelihood of rain or sunshine. They were blissfully unaware of the danger lurking in the dark forest just beyond their fields.

“The children were forbidden to enter the forest, for their parents feared the predators that dwelled there: wolves, bear, and cougars. But it wasn’t these creatures of Earth that would be their downfall. A far more villainous enemy sat vigil at the forest’s edge, awaiting the perfect time to strike.

“Nobody knew the true name of this creature, because no one had met him face-to-face and survived. Legends called him the ‘lurking one’ or ‘Teras—‘ from the Greek for monster. The beast didn’t call itself by a name; it was a divine being far above mundane titles. 

“This creature existed solely to feed off human misery. It played games with its victims, torturing them to insanity before claiming its prize. In the olden days, it would capture prey and slowly burn it to death, but it grew bored of listening to screams of agony. It needed something deeper: emotional turmoil.

“It spent years searching for the perfect subjects, until it stumbled upon the boy’s farm. It observed the family day after day, making note of their motivations, their personalities, and everything about them. It devised an ingenious plan which would wreak ultimate suffering.

“The family depended entirely on its crops for survival; without them, they would have no food. The beast knew this, and the first step in its plan was to destroy that crucial resource.

“’Pa, something’s happened to the fields!’ the boy cried. 

“’What is it, boy?’ he questioned. The boy grabbed his father by the sleeve and dragged him outside to see. The old farmer’s mouth fell open in shock. The travesty of his life’s work lay splayed out before him: field after field reduced to desolation. Where once had stood flourishing wheat, tomatoes, squash, beans, and barley now stood dead, rotting stalks. It appeared as if all the life had been sucked from the crops by their roots, leaving an empty husk behind.

“’How could this have happened?’ Pa said forlornly. Without these crops, his family would starve, and he knew it.

“’What are we going to do?’ the boy asked.

“’I don’t know, son. I don’t know.’

“That night, the boy lay awake for hours worrying about the fate of his family. He couldn’t stand by and watch his family starve, there had to be something he could do. The boy got out of bed and quietly snuck through the house, slipping his boots on at the door. He crept outside and walked the short distance to the forest.

“He was aware of the dangers of the forest, of the supernatural that allegedly called it home, but his gut told him that the answer lay within its grasp. He crossed the threshold into the woods, and the temperature instantaneously dropped several degrees. The moonlight was blotted out by the dense canopy, making the already dark night even darker. He heard a rustling noise, and started with fright, but realised it was just a squirrel.

“His feet carried him deeper into the forest of their own accord, he felt as if a magnet were slowly drawing him in. He finally came to a stop in a small clearing, and the creature emerged from the darkness.

“’Wh-who are you?’ the boy stammered. The creature was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. It almost didn’t have a physical form, but seemed to be made of swirling darkness. It didn’t have a face—or any distinguishable body parts—and its voice seemed to emanate from the surrounding forest.

“’Tis none of your concern,’ the creature hissed.

“’Wh-what do you w-want?’

“’I wish only to restore thy farm to its former prosperity.’

“’H-how do y-you know about the f-farm?’

“’I see all, know all, feel all. Grant me but one simple request, and thou wilt not find thyself famished.’

“’R-request?’

“’Yes. One of thy sisters will suffice. Feminine flesh hast not past mine lips in eons.’

“’Sorry, I can’t do that. I would never let any of my sisters die.’

“The creature knew this would be the boy’s initial reaction. He’d watched them long enough to know of his loyalty to his family, especially his sisters. The creature accepted this, for the boy’s refusal was a key to his plan.

“’Very well,’ the creature hissed. ‘If thou wilt not grant me what I so humbly request, thou payest most dearly.’ With that, the creature vanished in a puff of black smoke. The boy ran back through the woods to the house and leapt into his bed. He drew the sheets up over his head as if to protect him from the sheer evil of the beast. He wondered what the dear price he was to pay would be. He had no doubt this monster possessed power enough to smite him from the Earth.

“The next morning, the boy’s father awoke him excitedly. Not having slept much, the boy was reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed, but his father was insistent.

“’It’s the crops, you must come see. It’s a miracle!’ The boy clambered out of bed and begrudgingly followed his father outside. He gasped in surprise: the crops had returned to their former splendour! Not only that, but everything was perfectly ripe and ready for harvest. The creature had been merciful! The boy and his family were so relieved that the certainty of their future had been restored they gallivanted gleefully through the fields. The boy’s sisters each grabbed a juicy tomato from the vine and eagerly took a bite in celebration.

“Alas, the joyful atmosphere was not to continue. Not one minute after the tomato had passed the sisters’ lips, they all fell to the ground in dramatic convulsions. His mother panicked, running frenetically between each of the girls with no idea how to aid them. As suddenly as they had began, the seizures ceased and the sisters lay still as statues. The boy ran to his eldest sister and glanced down at her motionless form. Without even checking for breathing or a pulse, the boy knew instinctively that she was dead. They were all dead.

“The boy cried out in anguish. He’d lost his beloved sisters. A strong gust of wind blew through the field, rustling the crops and carrying with it a sinister voice.

“’Thou hast let all thy sisters die.’”

~0~

Never since the Hungry Donkey had I seen an audience so shell-shocked upon the finale of my work. Even Ms. O’Toole’s mouth hung slightly agape, and the entire room remained silent for an unprecedented amount of time. I rocked back and forth on my heels, proud of the effect I’d managed to create. I waited for Ms. O’Toole to react, to dismiss me back to my seat, to do anything, but she continued to stare blankly at me.

“Um, will that be all?” I asked hesitantly. 

Ms. O’Toole finally snapped out of her reverie and replied, “No, Jim. You need to explain how your story fits the assignment: write a fairy tale with a moral. Please explain the moral of this story.”

“Sometimes, the right choice feels like the wrong choice. Had the boy sacrificed one of his sisters, the other four would have survived. By refusing, all five of them died.”

“Okay. What made you choose this theme?”

“I didn’t want to write a fairy tale like every other one—one that discourages lying or promotes being yourself. I wanted to create something unique.”

“You definitely succeeded in that respect. Wonderful job, you may sit down now,” Ms. O’Toole instructed. I returned to my seat, leaving the paper copy of the story on the stack left by the students who had gone before me. Ms. O’Toole’s eyes followed me all the way back to my desk, and I slouched in discomfort at being stared at. It took her an unusually long time to call up the next student to present, and she didn’t appear completely with it the rest of the class.

“Dude, you totally threw the entire class for a loop. Did you see Ms. O’Toole’s face?” Sebastian asked me after class ended.

“Yeah, why do you think she acted like that?” I answered.

“I don’t know, nor do I care. It’s awesome, and that’s all that matters. You rocked her world, isn’t that what you wanted to do?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would result in her looking at me like I’m a stick of dynamite about to explode. You don’t think she’ll see me like Mrs. Fletcher did, do you?”

“Just because you can write a dark, creepy story doesn’t make you a psychopath.”

“I hope you’re right.”


	26. Heads Is Tails

Besides always being seated next to each other in class, another advantage of having a last name so similar to Sebastian’s is that our lockers were right next to each other. This way, even if we didn’t share every class on our schedule, we’d still see each other periodically throughout the day. We’d also shared combinations so that we could borrow each others’ supplies in an emergency. Being caught in school without a pencil was like being caught in public without pants, and no one wanted to face the humiliation of asking the teacher to borrow such an essential object. 

It also came in handy when a certain person (Ben) was evil and sneaky enough to somehow smash the locking mechanism with a hammer and not get caught. I didn’t see him do it, but couldn’t name any other suspects. A typical school vandal would have smashed more than one locker, unless he thought he was about to get caught after doing the first one. However, if that were the case, he wouldn’t have started with my locker of all the options, he’d have started in the furthest recess of the hallway where he was least likely to be noticed. That left only Ben, who still held a grudge about the stupid science fair business, as a possible suspect.

Anyways, disregarding who destroyed my locker, I was thankful Sebastian had been willing to temporarily share his with me. Otherwise, administration would have stuck me with one of the wonky lockers on the other end of the school that only decided to open every once in a while even with the correct combination. I entered Sebastian’s combination, 05-11-13, and stuck my lunch and coat inside.

The school year was progressing at an alarming rate: it was nearly half over. I’d scored straight As easily thus far, and was growing a little bored with the slow pace of my classes. English had still managed to hold me enraptured, as with each new book Ms. O’Toole revealed a new side of her teaching style and personality. We were currently on the Call of the Wild, which was a drag in and of itself, but which Ms. O’Toole somehow managed to turn into an engaging thrill. Whenever she read a chapter or two aloud to the class, she turned the temperature in the classroom way down to ‘enhance the experience.’

I’d heard rumours that the other teachers in the school considered her a charlatan who played games instead of teaching, but every student who’d ever had her disagreed. I talked to some seniors who insisted they learned more in her class than in every other year of English combined.

I’d entered secondary school with the goal of asserting my belonging among the older kids, and I have to say, I’d definitely achieved that. Within the first week of school, I heard whispers of the really short smart kid who looks like he belongs in third class. My youth and exceptional intelligence made me somewhat of a celebrity; everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of me to prove the rumours true. I want to say that all the attention bothered me, but I cannot say that with a straight face. It was awesome.

Not only was I a well-known anomaly, I learned to exploit my fame. One thing I did not have in common with my peers was a loathing of homework. Most children saw it as the bane of their existence, but it was my salvation. I enjoyed doing my own homework, and one afternoon while I sat at my desk completing it, the idea struck me to do others’ homework as well. People would pay to have someone as intelligent as me do their work for them, and I would pay to get extra work to do to occupy my free time. The best part: I didn’t have to pay people to do their homework for them, they would pay me.

At first, I just did small favours for people in my classes. A worksheet there, some textbook work there, but my reputation spread throughout the school like the flu. And like the flu, it made couch potatoes of kids who caught it. With me to do their homework for them, they could spend more time watching telly or playing football, or whatever it was they somehow liked more than schoolwork.

As mythology of the ‘homework angel’ spread, I began to get anonymous requests from upperclassmen. Worksheets were shoved through the slit in my locker (which had been fixed recently, much to Ben’s chagrin and Sebastian’s delight) with notes telling me which locker to drop the completed work into. When I dropped it off, I’d leave the bill attached to it. People were so desperate to get out of work I could get an entire pound out of them for one little worksheet with twenty maths problems. 

Some people even wanted me to write their English essays for them. These requests were more complicated, since most of them required knowledge of a book they’d been reading in class that I was most certainly not going to read just for a stranger’s essay. If I was to complete such a task, the client must provide me with a summary of the novel and important quotes they wanted included. If there was one thing I hated, it was thumbing through a book for quotes. The price of an essay was also higher: two pounds a page. At first, I didn’t think I could get away with such a steep rate, but nobody balked at the cost.

This enterprise made me a significant profit which I was forced to hide from my parents. They would certainly question the source of this influx of money, and they wouldn’t approve of the answer. Nowadays, academic dishonesty policies and whatnot would stop a business like that in its tracks, but it was a different time. I hid all my earnings in an old pickle jar that I kept under my bed. When that filled up, I got another pickle jar, and then another. As a precaution, I made sure I finished a jar of pickles so I could save the container. If someone else did it, they might throw it away, and I needed more and more storage as my reputation spread.

By the end of seventh class, I’d filled five jars with coins and notes. My parents had grown slightly perturbed by the rate at which we consumed pickles, but they were blind to the real reason behind it. I’d learned that people’s first instinct was to deny the possibility of any atypical cause of a problem. All UFOs were military planes or pranks, all Bigfoot sightings were just standing bears or people in costumes, and Nessie was just misshapen driftwood. These explanations were far more pleasing to the typical human than consideration of the supernatural. Because of this, I could get away with a lot of nonsense people didn’t suspect a ten-year-old was capable of. I hid beneath the facade of my youth.

However, as years progressed, the age discretion between me and my classmates grew insurmountable. Everyone around me shot up at such an alarming rate, I felt like I was shrinking. Some seemed to grow half a meter in a single summer. Not only that, but other things were changing as well. The dynamic between my male and female classmates shifted almost imperceptibly towards awkwardness and basic friendships became less common. The first rumours of people ‘dating’ each other surfaced during eighth class, and grew in numbers with every passing month.

I’d held out a secret hope that this phenomenon would somehow pass me and Sebastian, but I was proven wrong on the first day of ninth class. Sebastian had spent that summer in Australia, and I was absolutely ecstatic to see him again after an incredibly long couple months. 

“Sebastian! How was it Down Under?” I asked enthusiastically.

“It was great! I got to pet a koala, but it smelled really weird,” he stated. I could tell immediately that something was different. I knew his voice better than I knew anyone else’s in the world, and this was not it.

“Did you pick up an accent?” I questioned. That must be the explanation.

“No. Why?”

“You sound different.”

“Maybe I do, I can’t tell. What’s important is that we get another year ruling this roost!”

I decided to abandon the topic since Sebastian was evidently oblivious to this drastic change, but the issue never vacated the back of my mind. His voice was inexplicably deeper, like a grown man’s instead of a boy’s. I wondered if he was getting over a cold and was still hoarse, or if this was a permanent adjustment. I then remembered the contents of a lesson we were given in health class, and it finally dawned on me that Sebastian must have hit puberty over the summer. We had so much in common that I often forgot I was three years his junior.

I didn’t like the idea of an adolescent Sebastian. That just gave him more in common with all the hare-brains in this school, and it left me on the other side of a great rift. It would be at least three years before I reached a similar stage of physical maturity. We’d draw even more strange looks when we were seen around school together if he looked like a real teenager and me a little boy. I looked more like a member of seventh class than my fellow students in ninth, and teachers who didn’t know me often asked if I was in the right place. 

This judgement motivated me even more to prove myself intellectually superior. I needed to show anyone who doubted me that my young exterior contained an absolute genius. I studied harder than ever in addition to completing my quota of clients’ homework, to the point where I was hard at work from the moment I got home from school to dinner time. I’d asked my mother to start buying the jumbo jars of pickles so I didn’t have to use so many small ones. They were still oblivious to the small fortune residing beneath my bed. I could have put it in the bank, I knew how to open an account and everything, but I didn’t completely trust a bank. Knowing what I did about government and crime, my money wasn’t perfectly safe. I could guard it better than a federal facility.

The courses we were allowed to take in ninth class were much more challenging to my delight. I actually had to pay attention to my maths teacher for the majority of the class. Of course, I still understood everything he said the first time around and could easily complete the practice problems, but I could no longer zone out and expect to do well on exams. Everyone else needed theorems and rules repeated several times for it to sink into their thick skulls. Sebastian and I often told rude jokes to each other about our particularly obtuse classmates.

Fortunately, despite his physical advancements, Sebastian still treated me as his best friend. He had acquaintances among the other children, but he didn’t spend half the time with them as he did with me. I felt that he knew subconsciously—or maybe consciously—that I was the best possible influence for him. He consulted me for many decisions he had to make in his life, and generally heeded my council. Except for that one time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a very important question: what is the significance of Sebastian's locker combination? I'll be pleasantly surprised if anybody knows, since it's a very minute detail from the Empty Hearse (that's your hint). If you're right, you're an incredibly dedicated fan and I will shower you with praise and admiration.


	27. I Watched with Glee

I will never forget that fateful day for as long as I live. The day that spelled disaster for me and my only meaningful relationship with a fellow human that wasn’t preceded by blood relation. It was the day tryouts for the school’s football team were announced. 

Students below ninth class weren’t permitted to try out, so this was the first year Sebastian was eligible. I’d learned that he’d played football since he was four and promised him not to delete that bit of information. But I never expected that his love of a stupid sport would trump our friendship.

“I’m going to go out for the football team,” he said to me the morning after the announcement.

“Why would you do that? You’re already on a football team,” I countered. When I’d heard the announcement the previous day, I’d instantly feared Sebastian would express interest in joining. Nothing could be more abhorrent.

“Because I want to be a part of the school’s team. Maybe help win some championships for us.”

“You’d be wasting your time. Unless you’re already being scouted by universities or professional teams, football will not be your calling in life. You can’t waste all that time at practice when there’s homework to do.”

“I can do homework after practice. Lots of people are on sports teams, and they don’t flunk out of school. You gave to keep your grade point average above a certain point to stay on the team anyway, so you don’t have to worry about me slipping away into idiocy. Besides, in a pinch, you’d help me out, wouldn’t you? You do homework for a bunch of people just to make a few pounds.”

“Okay, but, why do you want to spend hours on a field in the heat kicking a ball around with a bunch of sweaty goons?”

“If that’s what you think the game of football is, someone needs to teach you a thing or two,” Sebastian scoffed. I’d never heard him use this tone with me, and it wasn’t just the mature huskiness he’d recently acquired. I felt like I should do something to make amends, but nothing came to mind and before I knew it, he’d stormed off.

~0~

Sebastian made the football team. He’d forgiven me enough to tell me that much, but he otherwise refrained from discussing the sport at all. It became a huge part of his life, and we no longer carpooled home from school every day. I went home while he stayed for practice. The topic was so fragile that I wash genuinely shocked when he asked me to come to his first game. He wouldn’t be starting since he was only in ninth class, but there was a chance he’d get some playing time and he wanted the moral support.

As much as I wanted to tell him that I’d never loathed an idea so much, I replied with an emphatic yes in hopes of reviving our relationship. I didn’t actually want to sit on the uncomfortable bleachers and attempt to watch a ball that refused to stay in one place for longer than a second, but I did want to show Sebastian that I cared about him and his interests. 

The game was on a Friday evening, and my parents and Connor came along with me. They weren’t huge football fans, but they wanted to support Sebastian and my school and whatnot. The bleachers were as uncomfortable as I dreaded, and my view was almost completely obstructed by a massive teenager in twelfth class. I swear—the guy was seven feet tall and almost equally as wide.

Sebastian warned me he wouldn’t be starting, but I still leaned to the right and left to search for his number on the field. I soon spotted him on the bench with a few other people from our class. The game began, and I truly tried to remain engaged with the proceedings, but I simply couldn’t. The ball was too small to see and the referee called a penalty seemingly every two minutes. Most of them were minor infractions barely worthy of the whistle blow, but just after halftime, one of the opposing team members body slammed one of our team’s players into the goal post. 

The impact could be heard throughout the stadium, and I could tell it was bad even before he failed to get up on his own. Apparently, he’d been knocked out cold. It was easily the most exciting thing to happen all game. Eventually, the coach managed to rouse him and, with the help of another player, half dragged, half carried him off the field. I figured he wouldn’t be playing the rest of the game, and I hoped Sebastian would be put in so he could experience some action. I couldn’t understand why he found this activity fun, but he was still my friend, and I wanted him to do what made him happy.

I glanced down at the field as play resumed and was elated to find Sebastian’s number among our players. I knew he went to football practice often even before joining the school team, but I didn’t realise how good he actually was at this game. Even as one of the youngest and smallest players on the field, he quickly dominated the game.

As I watched him seamlessly dodge the other team’s defence, I wondered where the heck the coach’s head was not putting him in the game in the first place. Another lame aspect of this game, seniority took precedence over skill level when it came to starting players. Older kids got to play first because they didn’t have as many years ahead of them to get a chance to play. Did they want to win, or did they want everything to be perfectly fair?

Now that circumstances had provided him an opportunity to play, Sebastian was quickly proving himself a formidable opponent. He scored a goal within three minutes of being put in the game, a feat which all his teammates had failed to complete in an entire half. The score was now one to one with five minutes left on the clock.

I surprised myself with the level of interest I now possessed in the outcome of the game. I wanted us to win—not only that—I wanted Sebastian to absolutely shine. I wanted to be able to say ‘that’s my best friend’ when he won the whole thing as a substitute player. If he achieved such a task, it would further prove that being younger didn’t automatically make you inferior, a concept which heavily applied to me as well.

The clock was ticking down, and neither team could get the ball more than three fourths of the way to the goal. Defence always managed to force it away from their end of the field before any attempts on goal could be made. Even Sebastian with his quick footwork couldn’t get past the impenetrable wall of players. 

The opposing team made a move towards our goal, dribbling (I think that’s the term) and passing with great accuracy to avoid our defence. They were within range for a shot, the ball was passed to the same boy who had scored their previous goal, he gave the ball a mighty kick, it sailed towards the top corner of the goal, and... 

I heard a collective gasp from the entire stadium as the goalkeeper made a magnificent leap and tipped the ball with his gloved hand just enough that it missed entering the net by a mere centimetre. Our side erupted with cheering and clapping; even I joined in the celebration.

Sebastian ran and got the ball from where it landed next to the goal and began making his way towards the other end of the field. He moved like a coordinated machine, effortlessly manoeuvring the ball around the feet of the other players. He passed back and forth with a teammate down the field, and it looked like a high-stakes game of Pong. They reached the goal, and Sebastian’s teammate made to shoot towards the goal, only to have his aim thrown off at the last second by an interfering defender. The ball shot into the air and soared towards Sebastian.

Time seemed to slow down. I saw the ball at every point in its parabolic trajectory. I saw the opposing team’s goalkeeper ready his stance to leap at the imminent shot. I saw Sebastian make an instantaneous decision to go for it. The entire crowd was dead silent in anticipation of what was about to happen.

Sebastian’s foot came up in an elegant arc, and the top of his foot made contact with the ball, sending it hurtling towards the goal. The goalie started to move, but I could already tell it was too late. My analytical mind saw the trajectory of the ball and knew the goalie was going the wrong way. Unless his arms were twice as long as normal, he’d never reach it. I glanced at the clock and saw the three meagre seconds remaining and I held my breath. The ball sailed towards the goal, just barely missing the crossbeam, and went in!

Just as it crossed the threshold into the goal, time was up! The alarm denoting the end of the game was drowned out by the raucous cheers of the crowd. Our school’s team members that were still on the bench stormed the field, all rushing towards Sebastian. They embraced him in a massive group hug and then lifted him over their heads. They paraded about the field, displaying Sebastian like the victory trophy he was. 

“Lord Moran! Lord Moran!” they chanted. I figured that was Sebastian’s football nickname among his team friends. He certainly deserved the title today; he had ruled the field. I was incredibly excited for him. I couldn’t care less if our school won or lost the game, it wasn’t even a playoff or anything, but I loved seeing Sebastian so happy. I vowed to myself to apologise to him for insulting the sport he adored and excelled at.

At the same time, I experienced an intense feeling of jealousy. Sebastian shared a love of football with his teammates, and now they had this victory over which to bond. I feared he’d leave me behind and become a full-time jock. Without Sebastian, I’d be nothing but a nerdy, reclusive, immature little freak that prowled the hallways of the secondary school. He was my one anchor into the social hierarchy of ninth class, and I didn’t want to drift away.

As I saw it, there were only three possible ways to restore my social life to equilibrium. Either Sebastian had to break up with all his new football friends, I had to join the football team and share these new friends (not going to happen), or I had to befriend new people and create a group excluding Sebastian. The third option seemed most plausible, since I didn’t want to be the bad guy that eliminated his best friend’s other friends. Let me rephrase that: I didn’t want to be the bad guy that eliminated his best friend’s other friends again. If each of us had a separate social circle that excluded the other, our equality would be restored.

I mentally ran through a list of the school’s cliques and scratched off all of those consisting entirely of idiots: band geeks, comic book nerds, jocks, and ‘popular kids.’ This left only drama folk and juvenile delinquents, neither of which seemed at all appealing. The kids in drama were far too bombastic and they always talked flamboyantly with their hands in an incredibly annoying manner. The juvenile delinquents just bragged to each other about how wasted they were and snuck off to the bathroom to smoke during class. I realised that since I wasn’t a conventional person, I’d never fit in with any mainstream clique. I had to think of something more my style. So I decided to join the maths team.


	28. Guess My Name

I was slightly hesitant about going to my first maths team practice. I wasn’t sure if I’d be frowned upon for joining late in the year or for being so young. I hoped that, as fellow maths lovers, they’d be able to look past anything about me that put them off. If not, I’d make them accept me by proving my adeptness at maths.

Before entering Mr. Graves’s (the maths team coach) classroom after school, I took a deep breath and braced myself for the worst case scenario I’d imagined. Upon crossing the threshold, I was immediately relieved that none of them stared at me like I was a lost infant. In fact, they all looked at each other knowingly and smiled.

“We wondered when you’d finally show up,” one of the boys remarked. I was taken aback; they’d been waiting for me? But I’d never met a single one of them before.

“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.

“Your reputation precedes you,” he continued. “Every maths teacher you’ve ever had talks about you.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you know me.”

“Mr. Graves can’t keep his mouth shut,” he replied. I couldn’t believe he’d say something like that about a teacher in his own classroom, but soon realised that Mr. Graves was currently elsewhere. “Regardless, we’re glad you’re here. We could use a mind like yours. Maybe we’ll finally win regionals this year.”

“Andrew, ask the kid to come sit down. It looks like he’s waiting for a formal invitation,” the girl instructed. Of the five existing members of maths team, she was the only female. The boy I’d been speaking to asked me to sit down with them at the table, and I obliged. 

“We should probably introduce ourselves,” the boy called Andrew said. “I’m Andrew, this is Neville, Arthur, Jacob, and Elie.” He pointed at each person in turn as he said their names. Each gave a furtive little wave and smile at me as their name was called. 

“I’m Jim, in case you knew me only as ‘the young smart one.’” I chuckled. Sebastian didn’t consider me very funny, but that joke went over really well with the maths team. “So, what do you guys typically do at these meetings?”

“We do a lot of practice problems,” Neville explained.

“And gossiping,” Elie added.

“Gossiping about whom?”

“All the morons around here who somehow made it through first class,” she said. I’d never met anyone except Sebastian who shared my strong opinion about the majority of the student body, but she appeared filled with fiery passion. Before the conversation could continue, Mr. Graves returned with a huge stack of practice worksheets. As we worked, Andrew explained to me how most maths meets went. First, each member of the team completed an individual assessment, usually about five problems like the ones we were practicing. The top three scores from each team were totalled, and that was added to the score from the group part. The group questions were usually harder and required a lot more calculation, but the whole team was allowed to work together. The best part: the host school provided biscuits.

As I went through the practice worksheet, I wondered why I hadn’t considered joining maths team sooner. This was fantastic! The questions were just hard enough that I actually had to engage my brain instead of flying on autopilot like I usually did for maths tests in school, but I still managed to arrive at the right answer. When we went over our answers together, I was shocked to see I’d beaten the scores of all the other team members despite my lack of experience.

“Okay, you’re definitely coming to the next meet,” Andrew gawked.

~0~

The next maths meet was in two weeks, so we practiced twice a week after school until then. I continued to prove my usefulness on both the individual and group problems. The day of the meet, I was incredibly nervous. I didn’t usually put myself into high-pressure situations, and I feared I would choke and not be able to think straight. The team had a pre-meet ritual that involved rapid-fire arithmetic. Someone would start by stating a simple operation, for example, three times four. The next person would take that and perform another operation, like plus five, and so on around the circle. The goal was to go around and around as fast as we could without getting a wrong answer.

We managed to get around the circle seven times before someone messed up a calculation. 403 divided by 13 was 31, not 41. The other team members said that seven times around was a good omen, they usually only got to four or five. We sat down at our table and waited for the meet to begin. All around the room, other teams were practicing and pepping each other up. Some of them appeared quite intimidating, with matching jumpers embroidered with their school’s name.

When the individual round began and the papers were handed out, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and held my breath. I would not let my new friends down. Maths was my thing; I would not mess this up just because of a little nerves. I opened my eyes and began working on the problems. Once I got started, calculations and algorithms easily flowed from my pencil. Before I knew it, I’d finished with plenty of time to spare in which to check over my answers. I didn’t normally do that on maths tests, since they were so easy I never got any wrong, but this was more important than a silly little test. This first meet would define me as a member of the maths team. I checked over all my work, making sure I hadn’t made any silly mistakes, but didn’t find any. When time was called, I was confident I’d gotten them all right. There was no other possible answer than the one I’d written down.

The group part made me even more nervous. Even though we’d practiced working together on these types of problems, I still wasn’t totally used to speaking my thoughts aloud and collaborating. Sometimes my brain moved so fast, it was difficult to slow down enough to verbally outline my thought process to other people. But these were maths nerds; they wouldn’t need me to spell it out for them.

The group round began, and we all glanced at the first problem. Immediately, the route to the answer traced itself in my mind. I glanced around at the faces of my teammates, but they all appeared puzzled. Since no one else was speaking up, I shared my idea. They all immediately agreed, and we worked out way all the way through the problem. We cooperated seamlessly, dividing up the more menial calculations evenly among us to save time. Despite my youth and inexperience in maths team, they all continuously looked to me for guidance. I was the ultimate authority on the final answer.

With me as unofficially elected leader, we worked efficiently through the remainder of the problems. I shocked myself at how effortlessly I was able to take charge and explain the plan to all these people. The only other person who’d ever actually listened to my ideas was Sebastian. Even he eventually stopped listening; his disobedience was the very reason I was here. 

We finished the group task before any other school, even the matching jumper guys. We high-fived each other under the table so as not to disturb the other teams. It was unspoken maths meet law not to make too much noise. All that could be heard in the large room was hushed whispering as they teams consulted with each other. When time was called, we gladly handed over our paper to the judges, proud of what we’d accomplished.

“Why didn’t we actively recruit you two years ago?” Andrew questioned. “You’re a maths genius.”

“Thank you,” I replied, flattered. I’d never felt so appreciated and necessary in my whole life. “I should have joined sooner, this is incredibly fun.”

We watched the judges anxiously as they pored over the papers of every team at the meet. They’d all been doing this for so long, that they quickly scanned each side, marked right answers, noted the total, and moved on to the next paper. Unlike maths test grading, they wouldn’t correct a wrong answer and identify where you went wrong. They were only interested in the number of right answers. Maths meets were ruthless competitions.

Between the three of them, the judges finished all the scoring in ten minutes. One of the judges, a short, fat little man with thin grey hair and thick glasses, stepped up to the microphone to announce the winners. Andrew told me they started with the third place team, stating their group score and the three students with their top individual scores. Then he would do the same for second place then first place. We listened in anticipation as he stated the name of the third place team. Fortunately, it wasn’t our team. Neither was second place. That meant we either came in first, or didn’t even make the top three. My entire team held our breath as he spoke the name of the winning team.

It was us!

We all grabbed each other in an excited group hug when he announced us the winners. I was tempted to jump up and down like a little kid—which most people in this room thought I was—but I restrained myself. Our group score was perfect; we didn’t miss a single question! Our top individual scorers were Elie with an eight out of ten, Andrew also with an eight, and me!

“Jim Moriarty was the only student in the entire meet to score a perfect ten out of ten on the individual task,” the judge announced, looking at me admirably. I wasn’t entirely surprised that I’d gotten them all right, but I was taken aback at the reaction of the people in the room. Apparently, perfect scores were as rare as a sunny day in London. I saw lots of people from other teams straining to look and see who the perfect-scoring genius was.

“We knew you’d be a fantastic addition to the team,” Elie told me, smacking me playfully on the back. I blushed, not used to such admiration and attention from other people, especially girls. I suddenly remembered the football team and crowd’s reaction to Sebastian’s winning goal and compared it to this moment. It was a perfect equivalent. I couldn’t wait to tell him I’d found an activity I was incredibly good at, just like he did. Equilibrium had been restored, and I’d even made new friends. These new friends and I now stepped up to the front of the room to shake hands with the judges and accept our trophy. Looking out at the crowd of students filled me with an incredible sense of power, like I could conquer anything.

~0~

Every maths meet we attended yielded similar results. We pulled a perfect score on nearly every group task, and I scored perfectly on the individual part every single time. I could tell whenever the judges were grading my paper because I’d see their eyebrows go up in surprise at a perfect paper. My reputation grew, to the point where other teams would scout me out at meets just to get a glimpse of the legend.

I felt like I was overshadowing the rest of the team, and when I said as much to them, they insisted that wasn’t true. They needed me on their team, and they loved all the victories we were attaining now that I was a member. I’d be jealous of me if I were them, but they were apparently better people than I. Elie even gave me a cool nickname! Sebastian might be Lord Moran, but I was now Professor Moriarty.


	29. Kings and Queens

One would think that at this point in our lives, Sebastian and I would have grown apart, but that was simply not the case. Despite our differing interests, we still got along famously. I’d forgiven him for joining the football team against my wishes, and he’d accepted my new role as maths team legend. After school, he’d come home with me to my house or me to his and we’d do our homework together—if neither of us had practice. We took exactly the same classes every year just for this reason: helping each other with homework. Our academic interests were similar enough that it wasn’t much of a sacrifice for either of us. However, the juggernaut that never ceases to carve rifts in male friendships was approaching, and fast. Neither of us saw it coming; it struck from the depths of our minds where the most primordial of instincts reside. A woman.

I guess it’s not surprising that two people as similar as me and Sebastian would fall for the same girl, but she appealed to us in very distinct ways. I’d known her longer than Sebastian had—we’d been acquainted since the middle of ninth class—but I didn’t begin to see her in a romantic light until one fateful night.

~0~

For weeks, Sebastian had begged me to go watch him play in another football game. I’d only gone to the first one in an attempt to rekindle our friendship and earn his forgiveness. Now that he wasn’t mad at me, I had no reason to bend to his wishes. It’s not like he’d ever come to watch me in a maths meet. Every time he approached me with the distinct look in his eyes that meant he wanted something, I automatically responded, “No.” I had far better things to do with my life than sit on some cold, hard bleachers and watch a bunch of dudes kick a ball all over the place. Finally, I gave in just to get him off my back.

The football game began just like any other, players running all over the place and no goals being scored. I was bored out of my mind until I sensed someone sneak up behind me and take the vacant seat beside me. I glanced over and was shocked to see Elie from maths team.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her. The rest of the maths team and I had discussed the frivolity of contact sports on many occasions, so I assumed she was of the same mindset as I was.

“My mum made me come to support my brother,” she replied. “It’s his first year on the team, and this is supposedly a really important game for them. Believe me, I don’t want to be here. Why are you here?”

“My friend Sebastian keeps pestering me to come watch him in a game.”

“You’re friends with Lord Moran? My brother talks about him all the time, he treats him like a bloody God.”

“Yeah, we’ve been friends for a long time. I couldn’t keep denying his request, it was exhausting. Who’s your brother?”

“I don’t know his number, but I might be able to point him out to you if I see him.” She scanned the field, sticking the tip of her tongue out in concentration, and I couldn’t help but realise how cute she looked. “There he is!” she exclaimed, pointing out the boy currently defending the player with the ball.

“Your brother is Derrick Darner?”

“Yeah, how do you know him?”

“Sebastian talks about him. I mean, he talks about a lot of his football friends, he doesn’t single out your brother or anything like that, but the name just kind of stuck in my memory for some reason. Maybe it’s the alliteration,” I rambled. I internally cursed myself for sounding so stupid, what was wrong with me? I never had trouble talking to other people; my oratorical skills were one of my most refined qualities.

“Are you okay? You look a little sweaty,” she pointed out, wiping my brow with the back of her sleeve. I flinched at her touch, not used to physical contact from other people—besides punches from Sebastian or my brother. Connor had grown up into a feisty little bastard, already the same size as me despite my two-year seniority. Puberty had found him early, and he never stopped reminding me of it with demonstrations of his physical prowess.

“I guess I’m just hot,” I said nervously. “Not hot like, sexy hot, but... temperature hot.”

“I figured as much. But don’t sell yourself short.” She winked at me before rising from her seat and returning to sit with her girl friends. I’d never experienced flirting before, only seen on television or read it in books, but I knew immediately that’s what she’d just done with that last comment. Elie Darner had flirted with me.

And I liked it.

~0~

The day after the football game—which Sebastian’s team had lost, by the way—Sebastian was understandably grumpy. It was his first loss of the season. I tried to tell him that it was my fault; that I was a jinx and he shouldn’t have forced me to come, but he wasn’t having any of my logic. I decided to change the subject and tell him all about my encounter with Elie. 

As I told him what had happened, I observed his face contort into an emotion I didn’t recognise. He looked almost angry, but that couldn’t be right. Even in the middle of a fight, he’d never hate me enough to be angry at my happiness. 

“What’s the matter? You look unhappy,” I said, wondering what could be bothering him. He couldn’t possibly be this sore a loser.

“Elie Darner? You said that Elie Darner said this to you,” he clarified. 

“Yes. Is there another Elie in our class?”

“Just making sure. Why do you think she said that to you?”

“I don’t know. I guess she likes me.”

“It would seem so,” he grumbled through gritted teeth.

“Why does this make you so upset?”

“Because I’ve had a crush on Elie Darner since seventh class!” he whisper-shouted. I’d never known a confession to sound so threatening in my life.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian. I didn’t know; I was just playing the moment. I won’t reciprocate anything if it makes you feel better.”

“No, I’d be a terrible friend if I ruined your first relationship.”

“Sebastian, it’s no big deal. I don’t even like her that much.”

“Yes you do, Jim. I know a thing or two about romance, and I can see it in your eyes when you talk about her. Besides, you two have way more in common. You can bond over maths team and such. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

At this point, I stopped trying to step down. I knew a losing battle when I saw one, and Sebastian was too proud to ever let me let him win this. He was compassionate; he’d feel guilty every second he was with Elie if he thought he’d stolen her from anyone, especially his best friend. As much as I hated to admit it, I was glad he hadn’t put up more of a fight, because I truly liked Elie. If this went well, I’d score myself my first official girlfriend.

~0~

That night, I read every book I could find about romance and getting girls. I had one shot at this, and I wasn’t going to screw it up with a rookie mistake. I learned that I couldn’t come on too strong because girls didn’t like to feel oppressed. Subtle romantic gestures were appropriate, but anything too extravagant and she’d think you were trying to cover up some fatal flaw in your personality. I devised the perfect, simple plan in my head to win her over completely. My job was a little easier since I already had proof she was interested.

I decided to do it during maths team practice that day, since I’d be surrounded by people who supported me and there’d be no chance for confusion. I walked into practice like it was any other day, but inside I was panicking. Never before had I put myself so far out there, and I feared my first attempt would go horrible wrong. When Elie walked into the classroom, my breath hitched and I disguised it as a hiccup. I stood up and walked to meet her halfway across the room, flashing a smile I hoped didn’t come across as pained. I’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my head, but nothing prepared me for the intense knot of nerves that had formed in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t ignore the fact that she was three years older than I, and I feared I misread her comment at the football game.

Despite my misgivings, I couldn’t turn back now without turning an awkward situation into a humiliating one. I got down on one knee (not to propose, but to define my actions as romantic) and held out a single rose with a small note tied to it. Elie blushed an adorable shade of pink and gingerly took the rose from my fingers. I’d spent an hour meticulously snipping off the thorns so there’d be no chance of her cutting her fingers. She opened the note, which read simply, “Will you go out with me?” and gasped. At first, I feared I’d mortified her with my advances. I bit the inside of my lip and braced myself for cruel rejection. Her hand flew up to cover her open mouth and she nodded gleefully. I internally sighed, relieved that nothing had gone horribly wrong. The rest of the maths team clapped as she yanked me to my feet and embraced me in a rib-crushing hug.   
Of course the football team chose that moment to be on a water break.

I could sense a piercing stare before I thought to look up from Elie’s shoulder at the window in the door. Sebastian stood there glaring, the look in his eyes saying far more than his mouth ever could. Apparently he’d expected I wouldn’t actually go for it, that I’d feel too guilty about taking his crush away from him. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might react like that. I tried my best to look apologetic without letting Elie know that was going on, but I think I tried too hard and looked love-struck instead. I probably caused more trouble than I prevented by trying to fix it then and there.

Sebastian walked away, taking the rest of the football team with him. Some of the more rambunctious players gave me a playful thumbs-up or winked mischievously as they passed. I guess it was pretty impressive for me to have scored such a great girl at only thirteen. If I had known that dating instigated so much more stress than it relieved, I’d have stayed far away from any romantic relation. In all honesty, life would be so much easier if human mating more closely resembled that of animals. Your mate didn’t have to love you; you just had to have the mutual goal of procreation. It sure would save a lot of time and trouble. If all relationships followed the same perilous track that mine did, then courtship should be dismissed as an absolute waste of time. I could have saved myself so much effort, time, and emotional endurance if I’d stayed away from the realm of romance. In fact, if I could go back and change one thing about the entire course of my life, it would be my stint with Elie Darner.


	30. Saints

As with all my endeavours, I rigorously thought out every aspect of my first official date with Elie. You only get one first date, only one chance to get it perfect. Since I didn’t know her romantic preferences all that well, I decided to go with a traditional dinner out. I subtly worked in a question about her favourite foods during a maths team practice to help me decide which restaurant. My mother would have to drive us, since I was only thirteen, but I made her promise to act just like a cab driver: silent and existing only as a means of getting from one place to another. I’d made reservations and called twice to double check that the name was correct. 

I got dressed in my favourite suit and chose a tie that was Elie’s favourite colour: navy blue. She liked it because it reminded her of the deep hue of the ocean on the beach her family visited every summer. I straightened my tie in front of the mirror and fiddled with my hair until it was just the right degree of messy. Finally content, I went downstairs to where my mother and father were waiting for me.

“My boy’s first date. This is a momentous day,” my dad said wistfully.

“I swear, if you cry, I will be so pissed,” I warned. “The last thing I need is for you to go all mushy-gushy on me. I need to exude confidence and swagger.”

“Swagger?” Connor chuckled, nearly spitting out the sip of water he’d just taken.

“Yes, Connor: swagger,” I repeated. “Mum, do I look okay?”

“Yes, honey. You look absolutely adorable!” She gave me an enormous hug. I allowed her to hold me captive in her grasp for twenty seconds before I broke it off. 

“We need to get moving. What kind of impression am I going to make if we’re late?” I shooed my mother out the door, saying goodbye to Connor and my father at the same time. Just before I closed the door, I heard Connor sarcastically wish me good luck. I shook off his insolence and forced myself back into the zone. I needed to remain focused if this was to go as planned.

My mother started the car and I sat in the backseat. I couldn’t sit in the front, because then Elie would be all by herself, and then what kind of a boyfriend would I be? The term boyfriend still seemed so alien to me, I couldn’t believe that someone had actually agreed to go out with me. Pity it had to be the same girl Sebastian wanted, but I’d take what I could get. When we pulled up outside her house, I took a deep breath to calm myself and walked up to her front porch.

I rang the doorbell, which made a very pleasant three-toned chiming sound, and waited patiently a few steps back from the door. The door opened and I found myself face to face with Elie’s father. Now, at this point, I’d read enough about dating to know the cliché that the girl’s father threatened the boyfriend to be good to his daughter and all that, but Mr. Darner just didn’t seem like the type to threaten anyone or anything. He was barely taller than me, and rather squat. His potbelly stuck out above the waistline of his trousers, jiggling whenever he moved. He wore comically thick glasses and had a scruffy beard that looked like it needed a comb.

“Good evening Mr. Darner,” I greeted casually. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jim Moriarty, and I’m here to take Elie out to dinner tonight.” I held out my hand for him to shake, and after a few seconds of confused hesitation, he took it and violently shook my hand. His palm was so sweaty that I felt like I was gripping an eel.

“She’ll be down in a few minutes,” he grunted in a voice like rocks grating against a mountainside. He walked back into the house, but left the door open. I wasn’t sure if this was an invitation to enter the house, so I decided to play it safe and remain on the porch. I waited for three minutes before I saw Elie coming into the foyer.

Her beauty literally took my breath away. She wore a simple blue sundress that complemented her skin tone perfectly and plain black flats. Her hair was intricately plaited beginning on one side of her head and finishing on the other, leaving the tail to cascade gorgeously down her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but she evidently didn’t need it. Her brown eyes glistened in the soft glow of the porch light, and her cheeks had the perfect little dots of rosiness.

“You look wonderful,” I stated, at a loss for words. Wonderful couldn’t begin to describe how her appearance made me feel, but it was all my brain was able to communicate to my vocal cords in the head of the moment.

“Thank you. You look very handsome,” she replied. I looked myself up and down as if searching for the ‘handsome’ she saw on me, and then decided to just accept the compliment. I thanked her in return and offered my arm with which I’d escort her to the car. She accepted it, and together we walked all the way to my mother’s car. As I’d requested, she didn’t say a word, just waited until we’d buckled in before driving off.

I made small talk throughout the entire car ride, asking her about her family and hobbies without being creepy. There was a very fine line between curiously interested and prying. She didn’t have any siblings besides Derrick, her younger brother. He never ceased to annoy her, always sneaking into her room and taking all the food in the house. If she ever wanted leftovers, she’d have to hide them inconspicuously in the back of the fridge and hope he was too lazy to dig that deep. I told her that, as a male, I could relate to the endless appetite that we suffered from, but I commiserated with her since Connor often did the same. I made an effort not to eat anything I suspected belonged to someone else.

I asked her if she liked to read, and she replied by detailing her love affair with Agatha Christie novels. I’d read most of them before, but I pretended I hadn’t so she could explain them to me. She was so enthusiastic; it was adorable. Her favourite was And Then There Were None, which was mine as well. I’d guessed the ending as soon as Justice Wargrave was killed—the song all but gave it away—but she hadn’t been so acute, so had been utterly shocked upon reading the last chapter.

By the time we arrived at the restaurant, I’d learned almost a book’s worth of information about Elie. I thanked my mother and escorted Elie out of the car. We probably looked quite strange: a thirteen-year-old leading a sixteen-year-old, but I didn’t care. This was my girlfriend, and I’d won her fair and square. I told the host the name of the reservation, and we were seated at one of the secluded tables for two in the corner. We both ordered water, and read over the menu while we waited for the waitress to return.

“What do you think you’ll order?” I inquired. At this point, I’d exhausted my go-to small talk topics, and hoped she’d initiate conversation.

“I’m not sure, everything looks wonderful,” she responded. “How about you?”

In my haste to answer her question, I read the first thing my eyes landed on, “Eggplant parmesan.” I’d never eaten that in my life, but if it contained eggplant, chances were I’d hate it. I could easily choose something else to tell the waitress when she arrived, but I feared Elie would think I’d lied to her. Of course, this doesn’t make any sense, but in the moment I was so nervous and eager to please her that it seemed logical.

“That’s a good idea, I think I’ll get the same.” Great. Now there was no way I could change my order. She’d chosen based on me; if I changed my mind, she might think I didn’t want her copying me. When the waitress arrived, I told her we’d both have the eggplant parmesan. I even managed to flash a smile, though internally I was practically crying. 

“My mother makes eggplant parmesan all the time,” Elie told me. “It’s one of my all-time favourite foods.”

“Really? I’ve never had it before, but I’m all about trying new things,” I said. This was a blatant lie, I hated going out of my comfort zone, but it was the only thing that could set me up for the possibility of hating the dish. She’d think I was an idiot if I told her I’d had it before and found it disgusting tonight. “My mother makes incredible blackened chicken,” I continued, forcing myself back into the realm of truth.

“I’ve never had blackened chicken before. What’s it like?” she asked.

“It’s a bit difficult to explain,” I began. “It just cooked with certain spices. Maybe I’ll have you over to my house for dinner one night so you can try it.” Good. I’d finally said something I didn’t instantly regret. 

“Sounds lovely.” She gazed off wistfully at the opposite wall, and my first instinct was that she was having a miniature seizure. I panicked, but immediately chastised myself for jumping to the worst possible conclusion. She was fishing for romance, begging me to make the first move. I reached my right hand across the table to grab hers, and noticed the subtle smile that crossed her face when she felt my grasp. Until our dinners arrived, we simply stared at each other longingly across the table, tickling each others’ palms with our intertwined fingers.

My first impression of eggplant parmesan was its aroma. Fortunately, I wasn’t immediately revolted at the sight of it. It was covered in so much sauce and cheese that it no longer resembled a plump, purple fruit. For the first couple bites, I picked off of the edges, only getting forkfuls of melted cheese and sauce. When I ran out of edge, I braced myself to try eggplant. I glanced at Elie, who was thoroughly enjoying her dinner, and cut the first bite. I slowly raised it to my mouth, and closed my eyes at the last second. The texture was awful, like an apple that had sat out to rot for hours. The taste was indescribable, and I shuddered with disgust. It took all the willpower I possessed not to violently spit it out in Elie’s face. I gritted my teeth and swallowed it, managing to flash a pained smile at Elie. Fortunately, she didn’t notice my plight.

For the rest of the meal, I simply chopped my eggplant into progressively smaller bites, pretending to eat some every now and then. By spreading it around the plate, I made it look like some of it had been eaten. Elie and I kept up more conversation about a broad range of topics, from maths team to politics. She supported Margaret Thatcher, so I pretended to agree. I disagreed with almost all of her political opinions, but I kept my mouth shut so as not to upset her. I breathed a sigh of relief when the waitress appeared with the dessert menu, and we ordered a slice of cheesecake with two forks. 

It may have been cliché, but we nibbled at the same piece of cake and even fed each other a couple bites. I ‘accidentally’ smeared a bit of chocolate on her nose, and she fought back by spreading some across my lips with her fork. Sure, it was rude to make a mess in a public restaurant, but we were young and thought we were in love. I wiped my face with a napkin to get the chocolate off, but Elie informed me that I missed a spot. She leaned across the table as if to rub it away with her thumb, but instead reached around the back of my head and yanked me towards her. Before I knew what was going on, her lips were firmly pressed against mine. At first I couldn’t breathe with the combination of shock and the sealing of my mouth, but I soon relaxed into the kiss. I’d never kissed anyone before, but I was surprised at the pleasantness of such intimacy. I could smell her shampoo; it reminded me of a meadow on a clear, sunny day. Her lips tasted like chocolate cake with a faint hint of cherry lip gloss. I’d never felt so content and loved in my entire life. But I sensed something amiss.

I chose the same restaurant as the school football team.


	31. Sinners

Just my luck. Why did this keep happening to me? Every time I made a move with Elie, Sebastian was in the perfect position to watch. It was as if he was actively following me to make me feel guilty about dating Elie. He’d literally told me that he wouldn’t stand in the way, but he was actually making it worse by standing so awkwardly close and not interfering. It hurt me more to see him watch helplessly from the sidelines while his best friend got the girl he wanted.

“Jim, what’s the matter?” Elie asked, rubbing her thumb across the back of my hand. Apparently, she’d noticed me staring across the room.

“What—nothing!” I stammered, snapping my head back to face her. That last thing I needed was for her to notice who I was looking at. The only thing that could possibly make this date worse was her acknowledgement of Sebastian. 

“You were staring at something.”

“Just a waiter I thought I recognised from somewhere, it turned out to be nothing. Just a really close resemblance.”

“Are you sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yes, Elie. I’m totally fine.” Fortunately, the waitress saved me from further humiliation by arriving with the cheque. I quickly paid it with cash my mother had loaned me for our date and escorted Elie out of the restaurant. We sat on a bench out front while we waited for my mother to pick us up.

“I had a great time tonight, Jim,” she began. “Do you think the other guys on the maths team will be jealous?”

“Definitely not,” I assured her. “I don’t think they’ll ever see you as more than a genius member of the team. Plus, I’m not sure some of them know what a girlfriend is; they’re married to their maths.” She giggled her sweet, light laugh at this jab. I couldn’t help but think of the person I knew for a fact was jealous.

“You’re probably right. I don’t think Arthur even knows I’m a girl.” We laughed about this for a long time, all the way until my mother arrived. We were still laughing halfway through the ride home. I was honestly disappointed when we got back to her house; I didn’t want the night to end.

“Good night, Elie. I had a great time tonight, we’ll have to do it again,” I said, walking her to the door like a proper gentleman.

“Me too. See you later.” She pecked me on the cheek before shutting the door behind her, and I returned to the car alone.

~0~

I could tell Sebastian was angry even before he stormed up to me at my locker that morning. He practically had smoke coming out of his ears. I immediately knew why he was upset, but if my relationship was Elie was going to drive him mad, he shouldn’t have told me it was okay. 

“Hi Sebastian,” I greeted cheerily. I knew that even I couldn’t diffuse him at this stage, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

“Jim.”

“Yes, that is my name.” If joviality didn’t work, sarcasm was my next best bet.

“I have a bone to pick with you.”

“You know I hate idioms.”

“Yes, that’s exactly why I used one. How could you do something like this to me?”

“Do what, Sebastian? I haven’t done anything you didn’t expressly permit. You said you’d be a terrible friend if you ruined my first relationship, yet that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“Don’t you understand anything? People say those things without really meaning them. It’s on you to read between the lines and realise that our relationship is far more important than a girlfriend. You know I like her, and you still stole her out from under my nose!”

“I didn’t steal her! She initiated a relationship with me!”

“Who asked her out? You did. And you could’ve been more courteous than to do it right in front of me.”

“How was I supposed to know you’d be standing outside the door at that precise moment? You just happened to pop up whenever I made a move with her; it’s almost as if you’re stalking me to watch my every move.”

“We go to the same school, I’m not stalking you. Although, I really wish I could transfer right now.”

“Go ahead, see if I miss you. At least I’ll be able to have a healthy relationship with my girlfriend if you leave!”

“You just have to brag that she’s your girlfriend, don’t you? She’s probably only dating you because your mum is paying her for babysitting.”

“How dare you? I am thirteen! For the last time: Elie flirted with me first, she’s legitimately interested.”

“Aren’t you fortunate? I’ll bet it’s nothing but a scam the rest of the nerd squad put her up to. They probably want you distracted and off your game so they can beat you at maths.”

“Don’t call it the nerd squad! That is incredibly disrespectful! And that’s not even how it works! We’re on the same team, they want me performing optimally.”

“Well, guess who’s definitely not on your team right now?”

“Gee, I wonder who?”

“Me!”

“Can’t you speak sarcasm, you moron?”

“I knew you were being sarcastic, I just wanted to answer my rhetorical question for dramatic effect.”

“That defeats the purpose of a rhetorical question!”

“I’m not here to discuss grammar right now! I just need to make sure you get it in your head that you betrayed me, and you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’ll still be your friend after such treachery!”

“I wouldn’t want to be friends with a jealous lump like you anyway!”

I nearly got my fingers caught in my locker when I hastily slammed it. Sebastian stormed off, his face flushed with rage. The fervour of a secondary school corridor fortunately prevented everyone in the vicinity from hearing our argument, so there was no stereotypical crowd gathered in a circle around us chanting “fight, fight fight!”

I was so enraged that I didn’t hear the bell over the thumping of blood in my ears. I only realised it had rung when I noticed the hallways steadily emptying. I raced to class, now even madder at Sebastian for nearly making me late. For the first time in my life, I honestly couldn’t focus on schoolwork, which only increased my rage further. Sebastian was ruining my life.

Beneath this wrath roiled another indescribable feeling. I wanted to eliminate the source of my strife. More than anything else in the world, I wanted Sebastian gone, but it went beyond that. I wanted him to suffer for what he did to me; I wanted to destroy him bit by bit. Without realising it, I subconsciously began to plot schemes to get rid of him. I pulled myself out of this destructive reverie by squeezing my hand into a fist so tight that my fingernails dug into my palm. How could I be so cruel? As much as I abhorred Sebastian right now, one little fight shouldn’t make me want to actually hurt him. The fact that my brain had so quickly leaped to violence as a potential solution concerned me, but still did nothing to quell the boiling anger.

Even my teacher noticed the difference in my disposition, and asked if I was okay. I insisted that I was fine in order to avoid a guidance office recommendation or the dreaded call home. I’d never left school sick before; I’d always toughed it out until the end of the day. I couldn’t handle the hit my reputation would take if my fellow students saw any weakness. If I was sick enough to be forced to stay home, I’d make up a cover story, most often a sick family member or a distant cousin’s wedding.

She accepted my claim that I was fine, and resumed teaching the lesson. I forced myself to focus throughout the rest of class, and the rest of the school day. I would not let my anger draw any more teachers’ attention to me, so I shoved it down into the depths. I managed to get through the rest of the day without drawing any comments from anyone, but any class I shared with Sebastian rekindled the flames of rage. We glared at each other from across the room like cowboys at a quick-draw duel and avoided each other as much as possible during the lesson. It was probably the worst school day of my entire life.

~0~

To make things even worse, the cause of this whole argument wasn’t turning out to be as great as I’d hoped. I’d gone on a few more dates with Elie, and I began to realise that we didn’t click together as well as I’d initially thought. Besides maths team, gluttonous little brothers, and Agatha Christie, we had practically nothing in common. In fact, the only reason I stayed with her as long as I did was to spite Sebastian.

Unfortunately, she caught on to this pretty quickly. Girls apparently can tell when you’ve lost interest, and they don’t dare stick around after that. I saw the breakup coming long before it actually happened, but that still did nothing to ease the sting of it. Elie did the deed at the end of a maths team practice while everyone was packing up.

She stated her mind bluntly: “Jim, I don’t think we should be together anymore.”

“Why not?” I replied.

“Don’t pretend I can’t see right through you. You’ve been completely disinterested since our third date.”

“But—“

“There’s no use arguing with me. I know you know what I’m talking about, and I think we can both agree that there’s little to be gained from continuing this charade. Please don’t think I dislike you or anything, I just think we’re not meant for that kind of relationship with each other. Friends?” She extended her hand for a truce handshake. I was blown away. I knew she was a headstrong girl, but I didn’t think she’d have the heart to put me down like that. She didn’t even bat an eye. I never thought that I’d be so dependent on the acceptance of a girlfriend, but now that I was being rejected, I felt utterly despaired. 

“I have to admit that you’re right,” I began. “Romance just doesn’t flow properly between us, but we can still be friends. More importantly, we can be teammates.” I accepted her handshake with a forced smile, hiding my true feelings. I didn’t want to break up with Elie because then Sebastian would have a shot at her. I was still incredibly cross with him and certainly didn’t wish him any pleasure. If remaining with Elie could deny him something he wanted, then I’d stick with her even if she were a troll.

Alas, there was nothing I could do to save our relationship at that point. I’d agreed to regress to the friend zone, and there was no going back. Getting out of the friend zone the first time was difficult, but getting out again once you’ve been sent back was impossible. My breakup with Elie marked the beginning of a very dark period in my life. I used to hang out with Sebastian all the time, and after our fight, with Elie, but now I had neither of them. Maths team practice only lasted so long, and I was lonely afterwards. While doing my homework, I’d often glance at my bed and wish Sebastian were lounging across it with his feet on my pillows like he always insisted on doing, no matter how many times I asked him to stop. As cheesy as it sounds, I just wanted my best friend back. What followed the dark stretch of loneliness was an extraordinary set of circumstances that united our paths once more. Mutual love had driven us apart, and mutual hatred would bring us back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three chapters remaining. I can't believe this is almost over!


	32. Sealed His Fate

I haven’t mentioned the infamous Ben in a while, but that doesn’t mean he’s been absent from my life. In fact, the more crowded environment of secondary school allowed him to bully me even more without fear of being caught by a teacher. He picked on a few other kids, but I was his favourite target. The awkward time period when everyone but me was undergoing puberty was especially rough, and it gave him lots of extra material to work with. “Runt” and “squeaky” were some of his preferred nicknames for me.

I tried my best to ignore him, but sometimes even my best efforts to let his comments slide off my back failed. It had been drilled into our heads by the school’s teachers and counsellors to report bullying, but I couldn’t go crying to the adults; that would just give Ben even more reason to make fun of me. I hadn’t told anybody about his continued abuse. I was determined to be strong enough to withstand his verbal assault. However, even I had a limited tolerance for such things. The last straw fell when he decided he needed an audience for his torture.

Secondary school didn’t have recess because we were apparently old enough to do nothing but work for seven hours straight (most of us weren’t). The school still had a large amount of empty fields behind it for sports practice, and many kids loitered around there before and after school. The maths team and I often practiced under a shady tree while we waited for Mr. Graves to get out of a meeting, or if something else delayed an after-school practice.

It was one of these days that Ben decided to up his game. He and his creepy friends began circling our tree like vultures for about ten minutes. My friends and I were so engrossed in our practice that we didn’t notice them until they tightened their circle. We were slightly perturbed, but decided to allow them to play their silly game and not let it distract us. I suggested we move—I knew Ben wouldn’t just stand there to psych us out, he had something bigger in mind—but they were too lazy to get up. His presence shattered my focus, and I couldn’t help but glance up every thirty seconds like a rabbit being stalked by a fox.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the nerd squad,” Ben taunted as his cronies gathered into a pack behind him.

“Excuse me,” Andrew retorted. “Such a cold-hearted comment is totally unwarranted. We’re not causing you any trouble.” I tried to somehow telepathically communicate to him that there was no putting Ben off once he’d locked in on his prey. He wouldn’t leave us alone until he had his prize.

“Actually, you were causing me trouble. I could smell your dorkiness from all the way over there,” he snickered, smugly high fiving his friends. He then singled me out: “This one in particular reeks of nerd.”

“Ben, why must you put so much effort into bullying me?” I questioned. “Haven’t you tired of this game? You never get to me, if that’s your goal.”

“My goal is just to put losers like you in your place. In your case, isn’t that...” he pretended to think for a few seconds, “first class?”

“You moron, I’m thirteen. And I still score circles around you on every exam.”

“Yeah. Because you cheat. No little kid could actually do well on eleventh class level work.”

“How dare you accuse me of cheating?! You’re just jealous of my superior intellect!” At this point, I’d risen to my feet in anger and stepped closer to Ben. What I didn’t know was that someone else was witnessing Ben’s attack, and was being gradually driven to protective rage.

“I could never be jealous of a little twerp like you! Hell, you destroyed your own science fair project just to try and get me in trouble.”

“You dirty little liar!” I exclaimed, approaching even closer to scream directly in his face. “You ruined it just to frame me!”

“So what if I did? Your ‘superior intellect’ still couldn’t prove it, so you got disqualified for dishonesty!”

“I got disqualified because you wouldn’t confess to your own cowardice!” Sheer hatred for Ben roiled violently inside me, and I could barely restrain myself from pummelling him. Evidently, he felt the same way, but he lacked my self control. I saw his right hand curl into a fist, but I didn’t put the pieces together until he’d made impact with my nose. I roared in outrage as blood spewed freely from both nostrils. I jumped at Ben, knocking him to the ground and throwing punch after punch at his face. Being three years older, he was much bigger and stronger, so he easily rolled over on top of me. I tried futilely to fight back, but his weight sitting on my chest was simply too much for me to overcome. 

His attack was relentless; I barely had time to breath between punches. I tasted the acrid salt of blood as it flowed into my mouth, and my ears started ringing. I could hear muffled yelling from my teammates as they attempted to call Ben off, but their efforts yielded nothing. I could feel myself slipping into the grasp of unconsciousness when the blows suddenly ceased. My fuzzy brain couldn’t completely comprehend what had happened due to the sheer speed of the onslaught. A figure sprinted onto the scene from out of nowhere, body slamming Ben and tackling him to the ground. As viciously as Ben had attacked me, this new figure put his efforts to shame. As the ringing in my ears faded, I heard the distinct crunch of bone breaking.

“Hey! Break it up!” a voice screeched from a few yards away. Neville had been smart enough to run off and grab the attention of a teacher while everyone else stood and gawked at the melee. The teacher jogged over and yanked the two apart. Neville helped me to my feet, and handed me a thick wad of tissues for my nosebleed. I tried to thank him, but it came out sounding more like, “Thaak oo.” Meanwhile, my saviour dusted himself off, completely uninjured. Ben had been so shocked by the ambush that he’d been utterly defenceless. Who could possibly have decided to save me from Ben? My only friends were the maths team members, and they would never do something so aggressive. As he glanced up at me, I gasped in shock.

“Se-bath-ton?” I blubbered. He hated me; why would he risk himself to save me?

“Yeah. That’s me,” he replied shyly. 

“W-why did oo safe be?”

“Ben used the term nerd squad without consulting me first. I trademarked it.”

“Dat’s not why.”

“Jim, honestly I just couldn’t stand to see a jerk like Ben take advantage of a weaker opponent. He should pick on someone his own size.”

“Oo really put him in his place.”

“He’s a real wimp. You’re the only person he could ever beat in a fight.”

“Not cool.”

“I know, but it’s true. Let’s get you to the health room.” He put his arm around my shoulders and led me back inside to get my nose fixed up. When we arrived, the bleeding had almost entirely stopped, and the nurse said it definitely wasn’t broken, but likely bruised. Ben had fared worse; Sebastian had shattered his nose. I feared he’d get in trouble for severely injuring someone, but if anyone could argue his way out of trouble, it was Sebastian. He had a perfect record; administration would be lenient.

“Boys, what happened here?” the nurse inquired. 

Sebastian explained, “Ben was bullying Jim for absolutely no reason. He and the maths team were just sitting there practicing, and he showed up and started harassing him. Jim got understandably angry and stood up to defend himself, and Ben punched him in the face and tackled him. Ben was relentlessly attacking him, so I shoved him off to protect Jim. I guess I got carried away and hurt him worse than I intended. I’m sorry, Ben.” I was impressed. Sebastian sounded legitimately regretful about hurting Ben, but in reality I knew he wished he’d had more time to do even worse to the arsehole. The nurse bought his repentance, and assured him she wouldn’t let him be punished too severely.

“You did the right thing, protecting the defenceless,” she said. “You should be proud of yourself for standing up for a victim.” Once I’d cleaned all the blood off my face and been cleared by the nurse, Sebastian and I were allowed to leave.

“Does this mean we’re cool now?” I asked. I didn’t want to let him know how much I’d really missed him, since he seemed to have fared fine without me.

“I don’t know, I’m still pretty mad at you,” he responded. I’d presumed as much, but it still stung to hear my best friend say that to me. I pondered for a minute, and I knew what I had to do to fix this. Sebastian needed to know the ‘truth.’

“I’m really sorry about the whole Elie situation. If it makes you feel any better: we broke up.”

“That does help a little.”

“Good, but there’s more. I didn’t go out with Elie just to spite you; I’d never do something so mean. She was the first person who’d ever initiated interaction with me. I’d had to work to introduce myself to every other friend I’ve ever made. I joined the maths team, they didn’t ask me to join; I sought out Martin and befriended him, not vice versa; and I offered to help you with schoolwork, and we became friends. I’ve had to work at every meaningful relationship I’ve ever had, but Elie was different. She was the first person who wanted to get closer to me, and I couldn’t waste that opportunity. I’m truly sorry that it just so happened to be the same girl you liked. Maybe now that she’s single she’ll fall for you.”

“Wow, Jim. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry I overreacted. I did tell you that I wouldn’t stand in the way of you and your girl, but that’s exactly what I did. I was not a very good friend or wingman.”

“It’s not your fault. I probably would have acted the same way were the situation reversed. Of course, I would have cooked up an elaborate plan to cause your breakup, but that’s just my way of handling things. There’s not a problem in the world that can’t be fixed with a good scheme.”

“You’re right, and I think that included the present problem.”

“What present problem?”

“Ben constantly harassing you. It can’t be allowed to continue.”

“How do you propose we stop him? I’ve tried ignoring him, and we just tried fighting back.”

“If my beating the crap out of him didn’t work, I think there’s only one possible approach left to try. He wasn’t disheartened at you ignoring him, and if he’s not too scared to come back after being beaten to a pulp, then he needs to be truly crushed.”

“How do we do that?”

“We break his heart.”


	33. Soul to Waste

Breaking a heart as cold and brittle as Ben’s was going to be no easy task, but Sebastian did some digging and discovered his fatal flaw. One of the reasons that Ben was so enraged with me that day was because of my relationship with Elie. Apparently the news of our separation hadn’t yet reached him when he decided to take it out on my face. He liked her too; evidently I’d been dating an incredibly popular girl. Sebastian suggested that we take advantage of this and manipulate his emotions. Of course, we waited until all the buzz about the fight had died down and Ben’s nose had returned to normal size—however, I was pleased to observe it was definitely crooked. Despite the damage Sebastian had caused him while protecting me, Ben refused to cease bullying me whenever he got the chance. All the more reason for us to go forward with our plan to break his heart.

“You’re still on speaking terms with Elie, right?” Sebastian asked me.

“Yes, we’re just friends. I interact with her like any other member of the maths team,” I explained.

“Good. So she’d do you a simple favour if you asked her?”

“It depends on the favour, but probably.”

“Would she make a phone call?”

“I think it’s safe to say she would.”

“Can you ask her?”

“Yeah.”

The next time I saw Elie, I relayed Sebastian’s request. She gladly obliged, but asked who she’d be calling and why we couldn’t just do it ourselves. Sebastian hadn’t told me anything beyond the fact we needed Elie, so I told her I’d get back to her with the details. He was being annoyingly secretive with this plan of his; he didn’t tell me anything more than the bare minimum I needed to know. When I asked why he wouldn’t just share the whole scheme with me, he said that he was still working out the kinks and that he didn’t want to share an unfinished plan in case something crucial changed. So I spent the majority of the next week in the dark.

Every time I saw him I begged him to let me in on the plan, but he adamantly refused. The suspense was driving me crazy; I wasn’t used to being the loyal little dog that blindly followed his master without knowing what was going on. I was literally considering blackmailing or threatening Sebastian into telling me the whole truth when he finally relented.

“Jim, are you ready to hear this plan? I know you’ve always been the super genius, but doing homework without you for so long has made me a more independent thinker,” he explained.

“Just get on with it. You’ve held this over my head for so long I’m about to explode with anticipation.”

“Okay. So, we start by having Elie call Ben and ask him out on a date.”

“Wait, you had me ask if Elie was willing to make a phone call. You didn’t mention anything about going out with Ben.”

“Let me finish. She’ll ask him to pick her up at her house, and he’ll ask for the address, right?”

“Unless he really is as stupid as we think.”

“Even if he doesn’t, we’ll have Elie give him an address. He’ll think it’s her address, and he’ll show up dressed all nice and maybe with flowers for her, but it’ll actually be an abandoned house! He’ll think she played a silly prank on him, and he’ll be crushed that the girl he loved would do something so mean to him.”

“What if he assumes that she just gave him the wrong address and looks her up in the phone book or something?”

“He won’t. We can leave a note at the fake address that says something like, ‘ha ha sucker.’”

“Sounds kind of immature and lame.”

“It might be, but this is Ben we’re talking about. He’ll probably run home crying like a baby.”

“Okay. I’m in. What else do I need to do?”

“Tell Elie to meet at your house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll just write her a script that she can read for the phone call.”

“Okay.”

As ludicrous as I found it, I went along with Sebastian’s plan. I’d just gotten my best friend back after a depressing hiatus, and I didn’t want to do anything that might upset him into leaving me again. I saw lots of potential flaws and hiccups in his plan, but I kept these to myself. If something went wrong, Ben would just be weirded out and we could try again. What I didn’t know at the time was that Sebastian’s plan went far deeper, and was far more malevolent that I could’ve imagined. Had I known, I never would have agreed to it, but my reaction to the horrid events that were to follow proved something about me that I’d feared for a long time. 

~0~

“Jim, your girlfriend’s here to see you!” Connor called from downstairs. 

“For the last time, she’s not my girlfriend anymore. Just open the door and don’t say anything to her, I’m on my way,” I called as I raced down the stairs to greet her. Sebastian and I had been finalising the script for the phone call. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and panted breathlessly, “Hello Elie. We’re working upstairs, you can follow me.” We returned to my bedroom where Sebastian sat with the phone in front of him.

“Hey Elie,” he said. As much as he tried to hide it, I could still see the rosy blush appear on his cheeks when he looked at her. He insisted that he’d gotten over her, but that was definitely not the case.

“Hi Sebastian,” she replied, taking a seat in front of him. We sat in a circle around the phone while Sebastian explained to Elie what he needed her to do and why.

“Do you know Ben Carlton?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Perfect. She shared our dislike of him.

“Well, we have a terrible history with him. In case you haven’t heard, he attacked Jim unprovoked on the field a few weeks ago. Before that, he continually bullied him, and he still does it even after I taught him a lesson.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why we need your help. Physically hurting him clearly doesn’t work to deter him from his cruel ways; we’ve already tried that to no avail. So the next logical step is to emotionally hurt him. Many people consider emotional pain worse than physical, and it’s much harder to relieve.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“In no way to I intend for this to be offensive to you. I am just speaking a truth at which I have arrived from many reliable sources of evidence. Ben likes you.”

“Gross,” she spat. 

“I apologise, but it is the truth. We are not going to ask you to go out with him for a while and then callously break up. All we ask is that you call him and ask him to pick you up for a date: a date that will never actually happen.”

“Okay. I get it. Give me the number and I’ll call him. I’d do anything to put that arsehole in his place.”

“I’m glad to hear such enthusiasm. We have his number here, and we wrote a script for you to follow if you need to. The hardest part for you will be pretending you’re actually interested. If you don’t use the script, that’s fine, but use this address when you tell him where to pick you up.” He pointed to the address he’d highlighted and circled at the bottom of the paper. I recognised it as that of an old house at the end of a dark street that hadn’t been inhabited for years. Hopefully, Ben wouldn’t know this. Elie picked up the phone and dialled the number. She waited for three rings before someone picked up. Sebastian and I could only hear her side of the conversation, but we could pretty easily figure out what was going on.

“Hello? Is this the Carlton residence?”

“This is Elie Darner. I’d like to speak to Ben. Is he home?”

“Great. I can wait a little bit.”

“Ben?”

“Hi, this is Elie.”

“Elie Darner from your history class.”

“No, I don’t need to know what the homework was. I was wondering if you’d like to hang out with me sometime.”

“No, it’s not a joke. I’d like to get to know you better. Are you free Friday night?”

“How about we go out to dinner or something?”

“Yes, Italian sounds wonderful. I know a great place downtown. You can pick me up at eight.”

“I live at 221 Sanner Street.”

“Great! I’ll see you Friday. Bye.” She hung up the phone and scrunched up her face in disgust. 

“I can’t believe I just did that. Even though it was acting, hearing his voice react to me saying those things just made me cringe. I pity the poor girl he ends up dating for real,” she remarked.

“Thank you so much for doing that. Hopefully this time, Ben will learn not to mess with us,” I said.

“I hope so too. That guy’s been a total moron for as long as I’ve known him. And I’m pretty sure he and his buddies do nothing but smoke and drink.”

“People like that are just so unnecessary to society,” Sebastian stated. I didn’t understand the true meaning behind this comment, but it would soon become apparent. Elie eventually had to go home, and so did Sebastian. While I ate dinner with my family, I couldn’t help but dream of a world in which Ben didn’t constantly harass me just for being young and smart. If all went well with this plan, that dream would become a reality. Who could make time to bully a little kid when they were nursing a broken heart? Not Ben. I doubted he had the mental capacity to pat his head and rub his stomach at the same time.

~0~

Friday night arrived and I fantasised about Ben’s reaction when he rang the doorbell and waited for his dream girl to answer... then rang it again in case no one heard... then rang it again despairingly... then peered through the windows... then realised that no way in hell would someone as lame as him be able to score a girl like Elie. Sebastian called me at about eleven o’clock Friday night to ask if I’d heard anything about Ben.

“How would I have heard? ‘Teenage boy heartbroken’ isn’t exactly a newsworthy headline.”

“Of course not, how silly would that be,” Sebastian chuckled nervously. Something about him sounded off, as if he feared someone was listening in on the conversation. He hung up without even a goodbye, which I found incredibly suspicious. Sebastian’s parents were sticklers about manners, and I’d never known him to terminate a conversation so abruptly. Saturday elapsed without a whisper of the events with Ben, but when Sunday morning rolled around, I came downstairs after an ordinary night’s sleep and my life turned upside down. 

As usual, my mother was already awake, drinking her coffee and reading the paper. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down across from her at the table. As I ate, I heard the slightest gasp escape from her mouth as she read something undoubtedly shocking. She often reacted melodramatically to news stories, so I didn’t think much of it until she addressed me.

“Jim, is there a boy at your school named Ben Carlton?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, why?” I answered through a mouthful of breakfast.

“He was just found dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *author laughs evilly*


	34. Just Call Me Lucifer

I didn't know what to think or feel. How could Ben be dead? People couldn't really die of a broken heart, right? Was there just some unrelated car crash or other accident that did him in?

"He was found with a bouquet of roses on the porch of that old house on Sanner Street wearing a suit, the police are baffled," my mother read.

"So they don't know how he died?" I inquired.

"They have a theory, but it's incredibly extrapolated. He had a few burns, but the cause of death appears to be cardiac arrest. The poor family," she sighed. I knew cardiac arrest didn't just strike healthy teenagers out of the blue like that; there had to be an underlying cause. My stomach dropped as I put the pieces together, and I raced into my room with the phone to call Sebastian. Could his strange behaviour from Friday night possibly have such a horrific explanation?

"Sebastian?" I said into the phone when he finally picked up.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"Have you heard about Ben?"

"Yes. Apparently his heart stopped on the porch of the house we sent him to."

"Would you happen to know anything about that?"

"What are you insinuating?"

"That you had something to do with it! You were acting awfully suspicious on Friday night, and then we find out Ben is dead after being subjected to your plan."

"So what if I did something? He was a pain in the arse, and the world's better off without him," he explained. As twisted as it seemed, a part of me knew he was right. I should feel guilty that I went along with a plan that resulted in a boy's death, yet I didn't feel even a tiny sliver of remorse. Ben had done nothing but make my life miserable ever since we'd met, so why shouldn't he suffer for his crimes?

"How'd you do it?" I asked, my tone suddenly shifting from angry to curious.

"I attached the doorbell to an outlet in the house. Did you know the average home outlet has enough voltage to kill?"

"I did know that, but I'd never consider it as a potential murder weapon," I said. I couldn't believe that Sebastian—of all people—would commit murder. And in such an ingenious way. But another question arose: "Why did you take such drastic measures?"

"I couldn't stand to see him beating you up like that. Even though we were in a fight, you were still my best friend and I needed to protect you. He was a weakling and a jerk."

"What if you get caught? The sudden death of an otherwise healthy teenage boy will surely raise an investigation."

"They'll never suspect me. I didn't leave any fingerprints or any other signs. Plus, Ben didn't tell anyone where he was going Friday night. His parents were out of town, so they can never trace it to the phone call with Elie."

"You're a genius," I stated. I'd never said that earnestly to anyone before, but Sebastian certainly deserved the honour. "Thank you for protecting me. We make a great team."

"We do. And now we've vanquished our number one enemy."

"We're unstoppable: Professor Moriarty and Lord Moran."

~0~

Monday morning at school, an assembly was called to discuss Ben's sudden demise. The principal spoke and essentially begged anyone with information on the situation to come forward and reveal what they knew. Sebastian had called Elie and explained everything, so her silence was guaranteed. The phone call had been made from my house anyway, so she was safe as long as she kept her mouth shut. Fortunately, Ben had been extremely unpopular; nobody knew what he typically did on the weekends.

His parents attended too, but they just stood in the corner and cried. I didn't feel bad for them. I knew that I probably should, but Ben's constant abuse left me unable to pity him or anyone upset on his behalf. Besides, why should I feel bad? He did nothing but attack and belittle me; it was his parents that should feel bad that their son did something so terrible to an innocent little boy.

Sebastian and I tried hard not to snicker at one another while the principal explained how little the police had deduced from the scene of the crime. They'd found the connection between the house's wiring and the doorbell, but they were utterly clueless as to who would booby trap an old abandoned house. What they really needed was a mind like mine to solve the mystery for them. Even if I hadn't been involved, I surely could have deduced the true circumstances.

The next day, the entire school was forced to attend the memorial service. I'd been to a few funerals in my life, most of which were for elderly relatives I'd never met in life. The concept never ceased to baffle me: the person was dead, so why did they need a party? All people ever did at funerals was cry. One would think they'd realise that they'd be much happier without gathering to acknowledge the fact that the person died. Besides, that's what people do! Benjamin Franklin himself once said that the only two inevitable things in life were death and taxes. And burial was the biggest waste of resources ever devised. In most cases, many of the organs were in perfect condition, and many lives could be saved if the family wasn't sentimental towards the empty shell of a person. It's not like the dead person had any use whatsoever for its internal organs, they'd be of much better use saving another life.

Ben's death awoke sentiments inside of me that had been there my whole life, but had been suppressed into the depths of my mind by societal norms. I really had never cared about other people and their emotions, but I'd pretended so as not to draw attention to myself. From a young age, I'd observed other people and how they acted, so I trained myself to do the same. I thought if I practiced long enough, I could alter my instincts, but those efforts were futile. I falsified my emotions and reactions again and again, but it didn't change anything. Mrs. Fletcher had actually been right about me: I was a sociopath.

Now, this didn't mean I actively sought to cause others misery—I wasn't yet the dashingly malevolent criminal mastermind that people know today. I simply wasn't afraid of morally unsound actions to get what I wanted. I didn't truly 'turn evil' until several fateful years later.

~0~

The investigation into Ben's death had ceased within a few weeks. The police simply couldn't muster the competence to figure it out. I think his death certificate officially said 'accidental electrocution.' The truth became an inside joke between me and Sebastian, and it marked the beginning of our beautiful partnership.

Twelfth class flew by in a blur of As and scholarship offers. Well, there was one little incident involving a swimming 'accident.' But Carl deserved it; he was a bully. My prowess in academics and maths team made me the hot topic among university officials. Many of them practically begged me to attend their school. In the end, I just decided to follow Sebastian wherever he wanted to go. It was either that or put the names of all the schools in a hat and randomly choose one. So, we ended up at Cambridge.

My mother acted like she was in mourning when she sent me off to England. I told her that I would come to visit no matter how much Connor protested. By this time, he was in seventh class and more irritating than ever. He was chomping at the bit to finally be an only child. My father, on the other hand, simply shook my hand like a businessman and wished me good luck. I guess one could say I was excited for this new stage of life, but nothing really got my blood pumping anymore. With every year of age and wisdom I gained, my brain grew harder and harder to engage. Ordinary schoolwork simply couldn't control the raging engine any more.

People had warned me that university was far more than just academics, and I believed them. They said it would be hard but it would also be the most fun I'd ever had in my life. Within the first week, however, I was utterly unimpressed. All the other students were idiots, and the professors' lectures were more soporific than educational. I could have taught the class more effectively in half the time. When I tried to tell the professor as much, he scolded me for being rude.

Despite the monotony, I diligently pursued my schoolwork, easily acing tests without even studying. I'd chosen mathematics as a major, since it remained my favourite subject through the end of secondary school. People were impressed, but their jealousy overshadowed that. Many felt certain that I was cheating. Since they got into Cambridge, I assumed they were used to being the smartest person in the room. Unfortunately for them, that didn't last once they ended up in class with me. I was known as the kid who was too young for university that somehow crushed everyone without even trying. The most important thing I learned in university was that people who thought they were smart didn't like to be outsmarted.

Apparently, I was not the only person in this situation. I heard rumour of another student in the chemistry department who was incredibly young and frighteningly smart. I had Sebastian, now a fellow maths major, do a little digging, as was his specialty. He was far better than I at the whole human interaction thing. He found out that the boy was the exact same age as me, and he was from England. This boy had a formidable reputation: he could apparently tell someone his own life story just by glancing at him for a few seconds. This fascinated me, and I made it my mission to discover more about him.

Before I could do so, he dropped out of school and seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth. Sebastian's inquiries uncovered that he'd apparently had a drug problem since starting at university, and those who knew him assumed he'd been carted off to a rehab facility. I didn't want to send myself on a wild goose chase, so I returned my focus to studies. I graduated early and continued on to get a graduate degree in mathematics. To make ends meet, I became Professor Moriarty—for real this time, not just a nickname. I taught at Oxford, and I like to think my students agreed I was the best maths professor they'd ever had.

I didn't hear another word of the mysterious boy from Cambridge until the terrible murder of Mrs. Gloria Scott. It was a terrible mess; the body basically unrecognizable from the well-to-do woman from central London. Scotland Yard had its best men on the case, and they could get nowhere. Just from reading about it in the papers, I could easily tell her husband did it because she cheated on him, but it wasn't my help they eventually enlisted. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade miraculously came up with the answer out of the blue. It was totally unprecedented; the evidence he presented was so trivial nobody believed the entire case could rest on such frivolities. However, I saw right through that. Lestrade didn't solve that case: someone else did.

All my life, I'd coveted an intellectual equal with whom I could repartee. To think that I'd finally found him was almost too much, if I only knew exactly who he was. Every time there was a particularly difficult crime that stumped the police, DI Lestrade came through with a miracle. I deduced that Lestrade must have some sort of relationship with this mysterious man, and he was getting the credit for everything he solved.

As much as I wanted to get to know this man, I wanted to compete with him even more. I'd never had to work to be the best; it just came naturally. More than anything, I needed a challenge. Sure, I could become a rival detective and solve all the crimes before he did, but what fun would that be? The most fun would be to create a crime that was impossible to solve to permanently defame him. The unbeatable genius detective burned by Jim Moriarty. You've gotta admit that's sexier.

And so began the infamous rivalry of Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a big thank you to everyone who read this story. I'd be nothing if it weren't for you guys. As I mentioned earlier, I'm accepting requests for one-shots to accompany this story. If there's some piece of Jim's childhood that I left out and you want to see, just let me know and I'll try my best to make your wish come true. I'm already planning one about Carl Powers, and potentially one about Elie's future after she breaks up with Jim. On another note, if any of you like Sherlock whump/medical hurt and comfort stories, check out my other story Fragile that I'm currently posting. It's a heart-wrencher.


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